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A MERE CAPRICE. 




A MERE CAPRICE. 


BY 


MARY i HEALY. Yy 

(Jeanne Mairet.) TV « iyV 

" ^ 



CHICAGO: 

JANSEN, McCLUKG & COMPANY. 

1882 . 




Copyright, 

JANSEN, McCLURG & COMPANY. 

1882 . 


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A MERE CAPRICE. 


CHAPTER I. 

ABONNE OLGA” — so called by her 



JL> intimates to distinguish her from her 
sister-in-law, the other Baronne de Schneefeld — 
was taking her usual morning walk in the Bois de 
Boulogne. The weather was cold; the Novem- 
ber leaves, yellow and dry, fell with a little metallic 
sound at the lady’s feet; she seemed to take pleas- 
ure in stepping on these dry leaves, in making 
them crackle under her feet. In reality she was 
so much absorbed in her thoughts that she did this 
almost unconsciously. A peculiar little smile, 
which was so much a habit with her that even 
when she was alone it rarely left her, hovered 
about her thin lips; while her forehead was 
slightly marked by the shadow of a frown. She 
was thinking of thes.e words of her hated sister- 
in-law: “ The adventuress! — at least there is one 
comfort — she is not likely to have any children ! ” 
and the image of Jean de Schneefeld’s lawful 
spouse, showing off her last baby, rose vividly 
before the “ adventuress.” 

Even while she was wondering what she could 
do to return evil for evil, still picking out with 
great care each dry leaf in her path, Baronne 


5 


6 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


Olga’s thoughts wandered away to the past. 
She drew her rich fur cloak well about her, de- 
lighting in its soft warmth; and she listened 
with pleasure to the sound of her carriage wheels 
in the avenue hard by — she had chosen a side 
path for her walk. “Adventuress! . .” Un- 
doubtedly she was an adventuress; that is, she 
owed her present fortune and well-being to her 
intelligence, and to that alone. She and her 
mother had known hard times — times when 
husband-hunting was weary work; long seasons 
at watering-places, with the eternal “ casino,” — 
long winter months at Nice, at Cannes, at Pau, 
places where two strange women with a fine- 
sounding name and small means could manage 
to get into society. They had known the an- 
guish of heavy hotel bills on one side, and an 
empty purse on the other. Was it to be won- 
dered at, if now she revelled in her furs and 
velvets, in all the luxury which surrounded her ? 
The husband-hunting had come to an end; she 
was the wife of the great banker Schneefeld, the 
elder brother, the great Schneefeld, the founder, 
the true baron, — and he was madly in love with 
her, and she turned him round her dainty white 
finger. They had met at Nice, two years before; 
his doctor had sent him there for his health, and 
he found himself at the hotel with the Russian 
countess and her daughter. He had begun by 
making light of the mother’s title and of the 
daughter’s virtue — the old miscreant! But she 
had played her cards well, and he had married 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


7 


her. As to her sister-in-law Amélie, no one 
would have thought of marrying her had she not 
carried in her ugly hands a big bundle of bank- 
notes; she was a heavily ambitious woman, and 
had counted on the rich brother’s millions. 
When he married, she considered that he had 
robbed her children, and her anger found vent in 
coarse words. 

Then, as Olga was curious, and liked to ana- 
lyze all things, she asked herself whether, in very 
truth, maternal affection was what it was sup- 
posed to be. She was sceptical of ready-made 
phrases, of sentimental formulas used by anyone 
and everyone. She had often read about the 
ecstasies of love — these she did not believe in at 
all; in her girl life she had met many men, and 
many men had made love to her, but not one 
had caused her heart to beat the faster for his 
presence. Since her marriage her calm and cold 
dignity of manner had kept the menât a respect- 
ful distance; no one, not even her sister-in-law, 
had found a pretext for calumny. Now, in des- 
pair at her own coldness, she fell to wondering 
whether a little soft-cheeked baby, all clothed in 
fine laces, that would smile at her, and a little 
later call her “ mother,” might not succeed in 
waking her from her apathy; and for the first 
time, perhaps, she regretted not having a child; 
— then, if she could have one, how furious dear 
Amélie would be! 

At that moment she heard a faint groan, which 
caused her to start. At the foot of a tree 


8 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


crouched a woman, wrapped in a large black 
shawl, her face hidden in its folds. 

“ What are you doing there ? what is the mat- 
ter ? ” Olga had first thought of going on her 
way; it was no business of hers; but the smoth- 
ered groans of the poor creature were pitiful to 
hear, and after a moment’s hesitation she 
stopped. At the sound of her voice, the woman 
looked up; she was a mere child. 

“ I thought I could have got to the hospital, 
but I live so far away — on the other side of the 
Bois; and — and I can go no farther.” 

Olga listened to the poor quavering voice, with 
its peasant accent, and understood the whole 
story as though the girl had told it to her; a 
common story, so common that it ceased to seem 
as tragic as it was — a pitiful story of ignorance, 
betrayal, desertion, with possibly death at the 
end. She felt moved with compassion, with 
curiosity especially. In her well-protected life 
of luxury she had not often an occasion of see- 
ing the working of misery and suffering; she felt 
a little as she had often done in her pretty bou- 
doir, with its warm flower-laden atmosphere and 
its cushioned lounges, when a storm raged with- 
out; the natural inquisitiveness of her nature 
caused her to open the window for a moment, so 
as better to hear the howling of the tempest. 
Morally, she now felt inclined to do the same. 

The smothered sound of her carriage wheels, 
on the road hard by, struck her ear, and she 
called aloud to her footman. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


9 


A few minutes later, the poor girl was placed 
in the carriage, astonished and grateful. She 
seemed easier, and opened admiring eyes at all 
she saw. She was willing enough to talk, and 
answered all Olga’s questions with childish sim- 
plicity. 


CHAPTER IL 


INNER was over. One felt that the viands 



±j had been exquisite, the wines generous. 
A certain heated satisfaction was visible on the 
faces of the ladies assembled in Olga’s boudoir. 
The men, who had retired to the smoking-room, 
seemed in no hurry to join the circle; the draw- 
ing-rooms, which one saw through the silver-blue 
draperies, were brilliantly lighted, awaiting the 
evening guests. This was always the trying mo- 
ment for the “adventuress”; every fifteen days 
this difficult hour had to be endured, and it left 
behind it a feeling of weariness, which Olga re- 
sented. As long as she was surrounded by men, 
all went smoothly. She was not really beautiful; 
she had none of what in her world was called 
esprit — which oftentimes is but a certain facility 
for talking incessantly, and for clothing anew old 
commonplaces — she was, on the contrary, rather 
silent, slightly disdainful, and very cold. Yet it 
was not to be denied that men, as a rule, found 
her singularly attractive. 

Two ladies, talking together in an undertone, 
a little apart from the others, were discussing 
this subject, with a crude freedom of speech with 
which certain women, especially after dinner, are 
apt to discuss such subjects, when they feel them- 
selves safe from listeners. One of them, stout 


10 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


11 


Baronne Amélie, listened with great pleasure to 
all the wicked remarks of the old Comtesse de 
Vignon, because Madame de Vignon was a real 
Faubourg St. Germain countess, and also because 
that evening she particularly hated her sister-in- 
law. Amélie had donned for the occasion a new 
satin dress of that sort of green called Metter- 
nich, a violent color which that year happened 
to be the fashion, but which seemed horribly 
crude in the midst of the silver-blue draperies of 
the boudoir — a fair woman’s boudoir. Amélie 
had' expected that the dinner-guests would be 
invited at once to pass into the large salon / there, 
the gold-colored hangings would have set off her 
new dress. She was a high-colored woman, 
already heavy and stout; she was laced to the 
last degree of endurance; and even while she lis- 
tened to the countess, she could scarcely resist 
the sleepiness which was with her the invariable 
result of a full repast. 

Olga, standing at a small table, was serving 
the coffee; she felt that she was being criticised, 
but she had grown almost indifferent to this. 
She knew that she was looking unusually well. 
A pinky flush relieved the whiteness of her face; 
her pale blue eyes, often a little expressionless,, 
seemed darker than usual; but she was perfectly 
aware that her face, with its correct features, 
was rather insignificant; her superiority over 
other women was elsewhere. She wore a black 
velvet dress, severely plain, cut very low; her 
shoulders, formed like those of some marvellous 


12 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


statue, arose above the intense black of the vel- 
vet, without a shadow of lace to soften the effect, 
which was startling and magnificent; no woman 
in Paris could boast of a skin as white or as per- 
fect. She wore no ornaments save a sort of dog- 
collar composed of immense diamonds, the set- 
ting of which was scarcely visible. In her soft 
fluffy fair hair there was not a flower, not a jewel. 
She was superb thus, and she knew it. She likçd 
to pass close to her sister-in-law, red-faced, loaded 
with jewels, overflowing in her green dress; for 
the contrast made her seem still more elegant 
and fair. 

At last, the ladies having finished their coffee 
and placed their empty cups here and there, gen- 
eral conversation became a necessity. But the 
general conversation did not prove to be a lively 
one. Amélie told a long story about Maxime, 
her eldest, who had come home from school with 
his little nose all bloody, having fought like a 
hero. Amélie was fond of talking about her 
children; she had three: Maxime, the eight-year- 
old hero; Laura, who was three years younger; 
and the baby, Claire. The story of the bloody 
nose having had but small success, the talk 
turned upon dress-makers; this subject being 
one of greater interest, there was a little flutter 
of skirts as the ladies moved up toward the 
hearth. But soon the conversation dragged once 
more. Olga, it must be owned, did little toward 
amusing her guests; she seemed not even to hear 
the monotonous murmur of the feminine voices. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


13 


At last a hum of masculine voices, with pre- 
ceding whiffs of tobacco smoke, announced that 
the smoking-room had yielded up its prey. The 
men, as they entered, seemed a little embarrassed, 
not knowing how to place themselves, the bou- 
doir being rather small for the party. The wo- 
men still formed a semi-circle around the fire; it 
was not easy to approach them, and none, save 
the master of the house, attempted to do so. 

The baron was a superb man still, in spite of 
his sixty years; he was very gallant, and women 
liked him. Every now and then he cast a glance 
at his wife, and that glance was one of passion- 
ate adoration — the adoration of an old man. 

A few minutes after the arrival of the gentle- 
men, a servant entered and said a few words to 
Olga. 

“ The poor little creature ! ” 

The exclamation seemed to burst from her 
almost unconsciously; but Olga never did or said 
anything without intention. 

“What is it?” 

There was a sudden silence ; everyone was 
curious. The baron went up to his wife, and 
echoed the universal question. 

“Oh, not much — almost nothing.” (Olga 
spoke French remarkably well, but she had the 
faintest possible foreign accent; she dragged her 
words a little; no one would have taken her for 
a Parisian, for she did not swallow the last let- 
ters of each syllable.) “This morning I found 
a poor creature, half fainting on the ground; I 


14 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


have just received news of her. A child, a little 
girl, was born some hours since, and the poor lit- 
tle mother is dying, it seems; she suffered too 
much during long months of privation, almost 
of starvation. She is sixteen years old, and the 
father of her child is a fine gentleman; all she 
could tell me about him was that he wore a furred 
overcoat. You see it is a terribly common story; 
that sort of thing happens every day. She did 
not even accuse him. ‘ I ought to have been 
more careful,’ she said to me; ” knd Olga imita- 
ted the nasal tone of the peasant girl. She was 
a born actress; she had told her story very simply, 
without a gesture. 

“ She has begun to play Lady Bountiful,” 
whispered Amélie to the countess; “ it is an easy 
part to play when one is rich, and — we all know 
that charity covereth a multitude of sins.” 

“We must try and find the father,” exclaimed 
the baron, warmly, “ and shame him into taking 
care of the child.” 

“ How can we find him ? Many fine gentlemen 
wear furs,” said Olga, smiling coldly. 

“ Do you wish us to subscribe, my dear, or do 
you mean to get up a lottery ? ” asked Amélie. 

“ I ask nothing at all; I have told you a story, 
that is all.” 

“ Not a very gay one, for an after-dinner story.” 

“ Real stories are not always ,gay, my dear 
Amélie. But you are right; I ought to have 
spared your feelings, especially as I make this 
my own business.” 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


15 


“ What do you mean to do, my dear ? ” asked 
the baron, proud and happy to let everyone 
know what an angel of goodness he had married. 

Olga turned to him with a charming gesture 
of confidence and affection. 

“We have no children,” said she; “let me 
take this little girl, so that she may never know 
that she is an orphan.” 

There was a general move among the guests. 
Amélie rose, as though she meant to rush for- 
ward and cry out that this wicked thing, this 
robbery of her children, should not take place. 
An imperious look from her husband kept her 
silent; but the effort she made to control herself 
crimsoned her face to an apoplectic hue. The 
baron saw and thought of no one but Olga; he 
took her hand and kissed it with old-fashioned 
courtesy, saying simply: 

“ Whatever you do, Olga, I shall find well 
done.” 

“She needs something to take the place of 
that dreadful little dog she lost recently,” whis- 
pered Madame de Vignon; then aloud she added, 
“ and what do you mean to make of this peasant 
foundling, dear baronne? ” 

“Who knows, countess? — she may be the 
daughter of some nobleman; daughters usually 
take after their father. If she should prove, on 
the contrary, to be a real peasant, why, I can 
always make a little maid of her; it would be 
better than sending her to an asylum. But she 
will be pretty, I am sure, and do us honor; if 


16 


A 31 ERE CAPRICE. 


so,” and she looked at her sister-in-law with a 
malicious smile which was well understood by 
all, “ why, then we shall care for her as for a real 
daughter.” Then she added carelessly, “how- 
ever, the law does not allow me to adopt a child; 
I am too young. The future shall decide.” 

No more could be said; the guests were arriv- 
ing fast, and Olga went forward to receive them. 
She was, when she chose, an admirable hostess, 
putting all quite at ease, animating the talk, 
even while she remained very quiet herself; giv- 
ing great spirit to all things, one scarcely knew 
how. Her husband admired all she did; he was 
more madly in love than ever, and was proud to 
show it. 

Yet he knew well that among themselves 
those people laughed at his passion, quoting all 
the cynical sayings of his old bachelorhood. His 
life had been one of pleasure as well as of specu- 
lation, and he had been equally successful in 
both : he had known how to keep, as well as how 
to make, a fortune; and until he met Olga he 
had kept himself safe from all passions which 
threatened to be too engrossing. All that 
seemed to him now very far away; he forgot 
what he had been before his marriage, vowing 
that he had really lived only since that day. 

Baron Max de Schneefeld was not an ordinary 
man. Younger son of a younger son, he had 
left his ruined family, and his country, which 
could not offer the field he needed for his ambi- 
tion, and arrived in Paris without a penny. He 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


17 


did his best to forget the small town on the 
Rhine which gave him birth, and to lose the 
German accent, so difficult to lose. He made 
himself small and humble, and managed to glide 
into the employ of a well-known banker. In his 
obscure corner he worked unremittingly; his in- 
telligence, his readiness to do no matter what 
work, brought him into notice. As soon as he 
had scraped together a few francs he began to 
speculate. His fortune grew with prodigious 
rapidity; for years he lived on almost nothing, 
taking his earnings, his salary, all the money he 
could get together, for his speculations. Then 
he caused himself to be naturalized. He became 
a banker in his turn, and called to him a younger 
brother who struck him as intelligent. Then he 
remembered that in his family all the sons had a 
right to the title of baron ; a title does well on 
business papers, and in the mouth of servants at 
a drawing-room door. At thirty-live years of 
age he was already very rich. He left his hu- 
mility and his austerity behind him when he 
took possession of his fine new house; he had to 
make up for many years of privations and ob- 
scurity; besides, humility and modesty had 
served their time; they were out of place; and 
Paris began to know the handsome and gay 
baron. He was seen everywhere, and was as 
lavish with his money, now that he had plenty of 
it, as in the beginning he had seemed close, al- 
most avaricious. He became more Parisian than 
the Parisians, and was welcome in all sorts of 
2 


18 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


circles and societies, where he seemed always 
equally at his ease. The more lavish he was, 
the more his affairs seemed to prosper, and he 
became the object of all sorts of matrimonial at- 
tacks; but he seemed the personification of gay 
bachelorhood, when suddenly he brought home a 
young wife. His sister-in-law, wife of the 
younger brother whom he always treated as an 
inferior, nearly fell ill when she heard the un- 
expected news. 

Never had Baron Max seemed prouder of his 
wife than during that long evening. Olga, com- 
pletely mistress of herself, was pleased that all 
these people who called her an “adventuress” 
should see her power. 

Olga did not, by any means, dislike the baron. 
His overflowing tenderness was sometimes bur- 
densome; but even that was interesting — as a 
study. She noted all the phases of this passion 
with calm curiosity; at times, while at her knees 
he was telling her that she was beautiful and 
that he adored her, she would note, still smiling 
at him, that there were many more white hairs 
to be seen than when she married him. Then 
she would remember that as a girl her ideal of 
happiness had always been rich widowhood. She 
was in no hurry to realize this ideal; she greatly 
enjoyed her present life; it was exquisite pleas- 
ure to show her power over the rich banker; she 
delighted in the concentrated rage which Amélie, 
among others, was obliged to conceal. As she, 
at the end of the evening, shook hands with her 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


19 


sister-in-law, she remembered her morning’s med- 
itation, and smiled, saying to herself that she 
had indeed found the means of being singularly 
disagreeable to that stout person. 


CHAPTER III. 


O LGA played at maternity very prettily in- 
deed. Her new toy really amused her at 
times, and she chose that others should think 
her engrossed in it. When she was a child, dolls 
never pleased her long, — she usually broke open 
the head to see what made the thing smile; 
the doll, with the top of its head off, continued 
smiling — which fact always puzzled Olga greatly. 
Now, she could not open this living doll’s head; 
besides, the living doll was not given to silent 
smiling — it spent its little life in sucking vig- 
orously, in sleeping, or in screaming; but it was 
warm and soft, it had funny little movements, 
and eyes that seemed quite round, without lashes 
or eyebrows, and with very little white around 
the dark blue balls. The real mother had died 
almost happy when she was told that the fine 
lady who had cared for her would also care for 
her child. “ At least,” sighed the poor creature, 
“she will not know what it is to be hungry.” 
All she asked was that her baby should be called 
Marie, like herself. Olga consented; but as she 
did not like simple names, she dressed this one 
up in a Russian fashion of her own. Marie be- 
came Macha or Maka — of which the French pro- 
nunciation soon made Marca. 

The young Baronne de Schneefeld was often 
30 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


21 


seen driving, having opposite her a stout nurse 
decked out with blue ribbons and carrying a white 
bundle. Many people thought that she had given 
an heir or heiress to the happy baron. The real 
story was known to a small circle, but real stories 
often get changed in the telling, and the version 
usually accepted in society was that the adopted 
child was in some way related to the baron — 
some said, to his wife. At any rate, the little 
girl was to take the family name. The affair was 
a good deal talked about at first, then quickly 
forgotten; for after a few months the stout nurse 
with her fine ribbons was no longer seen driving 
in the baronne’s carriage. Marca, having had 
some child’s illness, had been sent, with her nurse, 
to the country-place, two hours from Paris; 
for Olga did not like living dolls that screamed at 
night — and Marca seemed particularly well pro- 
vided with lungs. In the good country air, the 
baby throve and prospered. There were other 
children on the place, those of the lodge-keeper; 
and Marca grew up with them in happy uncon- 
sciousness of the laces and ribbons and carriage 
drives of her first months in this world. 

One day, Olga, having by chance gone to the 
country (as a usual thing she was not fond of 
rural life), saw her adopted daughter rolling on 
the grass with the peasant children; and she was 
half tempted to leave her in a sphere in which 
she was born. 

“ It would perhaps be wise,” said her husband, 
to whom she confided her passing thought. 


22 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


“ Better be an honest farm servant than an in- 
truder on our world.” 

The baron had never looked upon himself in 
any way as this waif’s father. Olga glanced at 
him from under her lashes; it seemed to her that 
he was speaking under family influences. She 
caused the child to be brought to her and ex- 
amined her carefully. 

Marca was then a fine healthy little girl, about 
four years of age; she had dark blue eyes, red 
cheeks, and a shock of hair. On the whole, she 
seemed, in her torn clothes, a superb little peasant. 
However, the hands and feet were small, and her 
baby movements graceful. 

Olga hesitated during a whole day. The little 
girl amused her; she was not timid and she over- 
flowed with health and spirits. As to the baron, 
having once expressed his opinion on the sub- 
ject, he said no more. The matter was one of 
absolute indifference to him; had Olga asked for 
a tame lion as a pet, he would have done his best 
to procure it for her — providing at the same time 
a strong chain. As to this little orphan, if she 
chose to bring her up, he was quite willing the 
girl should be educated, and he would find her a 
husband among the clerks of the bank; it was 
all simple enough. After all, every one ought 
to do a little good in this world, especially when 
one could do so without personal inconvenience; 
it might prove to be an excellent investment — for 
the life to come. 

The result of Olga’s day’s hesitation was that 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


23 


Marca was seen once more in the fine carriage. 
She was so pretty in her fine new clothes that 
the baronne became quite fond of her, and 
bought the finest doll she could find for the little 
darling. Olga still felt great curiosity about 
her own feelings, and examined them with sin- 
gular impartiality. She was always much 
pleased with herself when she fancied that some 
of the emotions she had read about were waking 
in her calm bosom. She liked to feel the child’s 
little arms about her neck, and to hear her say 
“ Marraine ; ” she chose to be thus called. 
Children have very winning ways, and few 
women resist them. 

During these four years, Olga’s position had 
grown much stronger. No one now spoke of 
her as an adventuress — except in whispers. Her 
influence over her husband was absolute, and it 
was evident that he would leave her all his large 
fortune; that made of her a very important 
person. Since the evening when Amélie had 
come so near compromising her husband’s posi- 
tion by an outburst of passion, Jean de Schnee- 
feld had lectured her into something like pru- 
dence. Jean was not brilliant like his elder 
brother, nor handsome like him; he was thin and 
humble, with protruding cheek bones and a 
deprecating manner. He had contented himself 
with the dependent position his dashing brother 
had assigned to him; and in that position, had 
silently, slowly made his way, and put aside a 
few modest millions. His wife, who was am- 


24 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


bitious, and who never lost sight of the round 
sum she had brought him in marriage, reproached 
him with the inferiority of his position and the 
humility of his attitude. Jean never allowed 
himself to be angry, even with his wife; but he 
gave her to understand that all he did was part 
of a system, and that it was a system w T hich was 
making him rich. “ Then why do you make 
wry faces at my dressmaker’s bills!” would ex- 
claim the irate Amélie. She never forgot that 
he had found the green satin dress very dear 
and too showy; he would have wished his wife 
to be like himself, modest and retiring before 
the other Schneefelds; but the Frenchwoman, 
feeling the importance of her dot , refused to 
bow before the adventuress. It required years 
of conjugal patience to make her understand 
that Olga was a u power,” and that the first 
duty of man — of woman especially — is to bow 
down before such. He always added, by way of 
comfort, “ Our great superiority is that we have 
children ; we must be patient and watchful, and 
some of the millions at least will fall to their 
share.” When Amélie spoke with groans of 
Marca, “the child picked up in the gutter,” her 
husband would shrug his shoulders and answer, 
“ Bah! she shall be pushed aside; have no fear!” 

No modern Cornelia showed her “ jewels ” with 
greater pride than the fat Frenchwoman; only by 
way of distinguishing herself from her classical 
model, she did not disdain other jewels, and her 
formidable shoulders and arms were covered with 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


25 


ornaments, the price of which caused Jean, in- 
stinctively economical, to groan in spirit. 

Olga, at the first sign of reconciliation on her 
sister-in-law’s part, made generous advances; 
she could afford to be magnanimous. The family 
life became touchingly friendly. The children 
proved a great help in the affair. They were 
very fond of playing in the upper rooms of the 
mansion, where they could romp without fear of 
disturbing the grown people; and Olga took care 
that they should have plenty of sweets. Maxime 
was a handsome boy, with short, curly, fair hair, 
who was the tyrant of the three little girls with 
whom he deigned to play. As he was always 
coachman, or master in the games, he distributed 
serious chastisements; his sisters shed many tears, 
while Marca, the youngest, being very strong 
and hearty, showed fight, or laughed under his 
whip. Maxime liked the child, and was always 
amused when she dashed fearlessly at him with 
her doubled-up baby fists. He w~as a general 
favorite; and his uncle spoiled him, giving him 
many a gold piece, the value of which the boy 
knew full well. He was treated a little as heir- 
presumptive by all those about him, especially by 
his mother. He took advantage of his position, 
of the indulgence which his good looks and easy 
temper won for him, to pass through his classes 
among the mediocre pupils. As he was not 
wanting in intelligence, he managed to catch 
up a bit toward examination time, so as to slip 
from class to class, learning as little as possible. 


26 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


School was to him a necessary evil; when he 
should hear the big door slam behind him for 
the last time, then he would be free and happy. 
His uncle’s millions were powerless to give him 
college honors, but they could give him later 
something for which he cared much more. 

One day there came a great change in the fine 
house of the Parc Monceau. In the midst of a 
dinner to which numerous friends had been in- 
vited, Baron Max fell, struck with apoplexy. 
The next day he died, without having been able 
to utter a word of farewell. 

Then came the great question — had he or had 
he not made a will? This burning question 
made many a heart to beat under the mourning 
crepe. Amélie could scarcely conceal her agita- 
tion. Olga, dignified and quiet, played her part 
of bereaved widow admirably; she seemed almost 
to have studied it beforehand. 

At last it was known that a will had been 
made. The members of the family, having wiped 
away the tears of grief, were called together, and 
listened to the reading of the document in trou- 
bled silence. Olga alone was perfectly calm; 
one might have taken her for a disinterested vis- 
itor, but for her weeds and a certain pallor. 

The will did not take long to read, for Baron 
Max had never been wasteful of his words. He 
left to his beloved wife nearly all his fortune — 
twelve millions of francs. As a souvenir, he de- 
sired that the one remaining million should be 
divided among his nephew Maxime, and his 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


27 


nieces, Laure and Claire; moreover he recom- 
mended them to his dear wife. There were some 
smaller legacies to clerks and servants. Marca 
was not mentioned. 

Olga allowed for an instant her peculiar smile 
to hover round her lips. Amélie was half faint- 
ing; her husband, on the contrary, with great 
presence of mind, arose and congratulated the 
widow, letting it be understood that he himself 
had advised his brother as to the tenor of the 
will. Olga politely pretended to believe this 
monstrous falsehood. 

A week later the fine house was shut up. 
Olga started for Russia, feeling doubtless a need 
of airing her widowed sadness in her native land; 
her mother was still living, richly exiled at St. 
Petersburg by her prudent son-in-law. Olga 
felt a certain satisfaction at the thought of dis- 
playing her luxury before the eyes of those who 
had known her as a needy husband-hunter. She 
had no intention, however, of remaining long 
away from Paris; probably there would be a lit- 
tle lilac mingling its discreet tones with the black 
of her mourning when the city she loved so well 
saw her again within its walls. 

But the discreet half-mourning period came 
and went, and Olga seemed quite to have for- 
gotten the city of her love and the affectionate 
relatives that city contained. She exchanged 
letters with her brother-in-law, carefully measur- 
ing her tender inquiries after “ dear Amélie ” 
and the “darling children” upon his own ex- 


28 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


pressions of fraternal affection. At New Year, 
she always sent handsome presents to the loved 
ones. When asked when she meant to return 
among them, her answers remained vague and 
unsatisfactory. 

Jean was careful to keep up this correspond- 
ence, which cost him many hours of work — 
for he was not a brilliant letter writer. As to 
the cause of her long absence he was reduced to 
conjectures. During the first years, the delicate 
health of her mother served as pretext; but Jean 
did not put much faith in Olga’s filial affection, 
and when one day the old lady was gathered to 
her titled ancestors, and Olga still remained at 
St. Petersburg, he saw that his sagacity had not 
been at fault. Did she mean to marry again ? 
The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine. 
What reassured him was, that she had not much 
to gain from a second marriage. She was too 
wise a woman to barter her fortune against a 
big title — she bore a name that sounded well 
enough; and as to any heart cravings, Jean 
smiled at the idea. According to his notion, 
nature had quite forgotten to endow Olga with 
a heart. Still, the years glided on, and the man- 
sion of the Parc Monceau remained shut up and 
desolate. 

When Olga left Paris, a bereaved widow, she 
had hesitated whether she should take Marca 
with her. On the whole, she concluded not to 
do so, and placed her in a highly recommended 
school at St. Germain, the directress of which, 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


29 


Madame Langlois, was, fortunately for the child, 
a highly cultivated and most excellent woman. 
She saw pretty clearly into the nature of the 
baronne, and after the preliminary remarks, said 
to her : 

“ Pardon me, Madame, if T seem indiscreet ; 
but my conscience requires me to understand 
this child’s case, so as to direct her education. 
If I understand you aright, she, who is in reality 
nothing to you, is yet to be brought up as though 
she were your daughter.” 

“ That is my wish, precisely.” 

“Was she legally adopted by Monsieur de 
Schneefeld ? ” 

“ No. My husband always looked upon my 
interest in the child as one of my private chari- 
ties. As to me, I am too young to take any 
legal steps toward her adoption.” 

“ Then she depends absolutely on your good- 
will ; should she have the misfortune of losing 
her benefactress — pardon me, my duty forces 
me to seem rudely frank — she would find herself 
quite unprotected. If Marca is brought up like 
my other pupils, who are all children of rich 
families, she would probably be quite incapable, 
at a given moment, to earn her own living ; 
whereas — ” 

“ She will never need to earn her own living.” 

“ That is all I need know. As she grows up, 
and asks questions as to her origin, as she inevi- 
tably will, what am I to answer? Believe me, 
Madame, that what prompts my question is no 
vulgar curiosity.” 


30 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


Olga replied, after a moment’s hesitation : 
“ She is generally thought to belong to an im- 
poverished branch of my family. It is as well 
that she should believe this ; if she insists on 
knowing more, you might endow her with a 
mother, in the person of a cousin of mine, who 
died when her child was born.” 

Madame Langlois was but half satisfied with 
all this ; but she had no further pretext for in- 
sisting. 

Marca grew up in the midst of companions 
who were mostly foreigners. French children 
are usually either placed in convents or educated 
at home, and few ever find their way into such 
schools as that of Madame Langlois. The price 
was too high, and no especial religious character 
distinguished the establishment ; Protestant, 
Jewish, as well as Catholic children were taken, 
and each attended to her religious duties under 
the care of the different teachers. The school 
was like a large home with every comfort ; an 
amount of liberty rarely found in France, and a 
liberal education which took rather a peculiar 
character from the numerous nationalities repre- 
sented by the seventy or eighty pupils. Marca’s 
most intimate friend was born near Lake Michi- 
gan, and she learned English while playing with 
her favorite companion. 

As the years passed by, Marca seemed more 
and more forgotten. Her schooling was paid by 
Olga’s banker, and the child wrote dutiful letters 
to her dear godmother at stated intervals ; 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


31 


sometimes the dear godmother answered the du- 
tiful little letters, sometimes she forgot to do so. 
Marca grew to have but a faint remembrance of 
her benefactress. As for the Paris family, after 
the first few months she received no token what- 
ever of remembrance. 

In spite of this apparent desertion, Marca was 
in no way unhappy ; she adored Madame Lang- 
lois, and her frank, gay nature made her a gen- 
eral favorite. She learned easily enough, but it 
must be owned that love of study was not her 
greatest virtue. Madame Langlois, whose trust 
in Olga had grown weaker with each passing 
year, tried her best to excite Marca’s ambition ; 
she wished her to pass the public examinations, 
which would bestow upon her a teacher’s diplo- 
ma ; many girls belongingto rich families passed 
these examinations, simply as a crowning of their 
studies ; but Marca, in spite of occasional good 
intentions, did not distinguish herself greatly. 
She remained very young for her age, showing 
all her passing thoughts and emotions with most 
perfect truthfulness and imprudence ; she was 
easily moved to anger, and more easily still sub- 
dued by a gentle word ; she adored the beauti- 
ful, under every shape, had an instinctive delight 
in all sorts of luxury, and her great ambition was 
to enter, under brilliant auspices, that vague 
region of wonder called a the world.” She had 
a passionate desire for happiness and enjoyment. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“ TTTHY! — there is no recognizing a single 
VV thing about the place!” 

It was Amélie who spoke thus; Amélie, grown 
stouter and heavier and more common than ever, 
now that she was nearing the fifties. Olga was 
to arrive in time for dinner, and she had invited 
the family to meet her, so that she might find a 
house tvell warmed, well lighted, and alive with 
human voices. 

And verily, the change was complete. Olga 
had spent the early part of the winter in Italy, 
and from her sunny retreat she had directed all 
the changes she had deemed necessary in her 
mansion. Her sister-in-law’s kind offers of aid 
were politely declined. She knew just what she 
wanted, and there are in Paris intelligent people, 
with artistic tastes, who understand the veriest 
hint — if one can only pay them well. Olga’s 
fancy was to return home only when everything 
was absolutely finished and in order — servants 
well drilled, and the table set for a family din- 
ner; she had a perfect horror of anything 
incomplete: she wished to see the result, and to 
ignore the preparations. 

The gold-colored drawing-room had ceased to 
be; the silver-blue boudoir was transformed; no- 
where was there a “ set ” of furniture to be seen; 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


33 


no clock with its accompanying candelabras 
decked the mantels. Fashion had changed since 
the baron’s time in the dressing of houses as 
well as in the dressing of their inhabitants. The 
picturesque disorder of the painter’s studio had 
invaded the drawing-room. The Japanese fever 
was at its height: monsters of curious shapes 
were embroidered in gold on the draperies, on 
the lounges and chairs, which were all very low. 
All sorts of colors were blended, and all were 
softened to delicious half-tints, on which the gold 
and silver embroideries glittered in the brilliant 
light. The carpets, soft and thick, were oriental 
with rich, warm, well-effaced hues. Everywhere 
one saw a strange mixture of furniture: rare 
specimens from many a country and many a 
century; Italian Renaissance chests, curiously 
inlaid, with their carved niches and tiny statu- 
ettes of yellowish ivory; in another corner, some 
strange bulging specimen of furniture from 
Holland, with its wooden mosaic of birds and 
flowers; lacquered Japanese and Chinese chiffon- 
iers; a writing desk which had belonged to 
Marie Antoinette, — all things harmoniously dis- 
similar. The only century which seemed to be 
excluded was our own. Numberless and fragile 
knick-knacks were scattered everywhere, so that 
one almost feared to walk among them, — vases 
from Venice, with their delicate opal tints, curi- 
ous old china; and in every corner one saw some 
grimacing Japanese monster, superbly hideous, 
throned in state, like the gods of the place. 

3 


34 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


No more uniform hangings of this or that color 
were to be seen, but everywhere rich draperies 
of cream-white, of bronze-green, of black-red, 
serving as ground to gold embroideries of an ex- 
traordinary variety and splendor. One glanced 
from one strange object to another, as a child 
goes from wonder to wonder in its favorite fairy 
tale; and from all this strange variety came a 
sort of harmony full of a luxurious charm. 
Among all these cushioned lounges there was 
not one that did not invite to relaxing voluptu- 
ousness; there was not a stiff-backed seat to be 
seen. The baronne’s mansion seemed made only 
for the fortunate ones of this world, to whom 
the words icork or duty were merely words; 
- for those whose only care in life was to make it 
easy and delightful. 

In the boudoir a divan, low and soft like an 
eastern couch, ran along the sides; on the walls 
cabinet pictures, signed by the most illustrious 
modern names, were crowded together. An- 
other salon had been converted into a veritable 
picture gallery; here no luxurious furniture was 
admitted; the attention was concentrated on the 
pictures, all of which were famous, and on the 
statues placed in well-lighted recesses. The im- 
pression produced by the house, from its vesti- 
bule, with its statues, with its masses of plants 
and flowers, up to its gallery, which museums 
might have envied, was that some artist, extra- 
ordinarily rich, had arranged for himself an ideal 
residence. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


35 


Amélie felt that there was something incon- 
gruous in all this; but she felt it vaguely, and 
struggled in vain to put her thoughts into words. 
She looked toward her husband, questioningly. 
Jean, however, did not return her glance; he 
seemed much absorbed, not to say very cross. 
He was mentally calculating the probable ex- 
pense of all this luxury; and the result was 
painful to his feelings. The old furniture, newly 
covered, would have done admirably. He felt 
that all this extravagance was an injustice to his 
children. He looked toward them; they were 
all three running from drawing-room to drawing- 
room, exclaiming, admiring, enjoying this lux- 
ury, without any afterthoughts; confiding to 
each other that they wished their big apartment 
in the rue St. Honoré might be changed from its 
heavy and solemn grandeur to something like 
Aunt Olga’s fairy palace. 

Baron Jean had grown much older, as well 
as his better half; only he had not grown stouter. 
The cheek bones protruded more than ever, and 
the skin, tightly drawn over them, was now a 
little the. color of old ivory; his small grey eyes 
wore an anxious look; they glanced here and 
there, resting nowhere. The war had been hard 
upon him; he had never had his brother’s talent 
for doing business in a large and grand way; he 
had passed through the terrible times of money 
troubles, when he had thought with sorrow of 
the fraternal millions which were slipping 
lavishly through a stranger’s dainty fingers. 


36 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


His attitude during that terrible war had not 
been very clear; at heart he had remained a 
German; at the first growling of the cannon he 
had fled to his country-place, and when, in the 
course of the campaign, his quondam country- 
men had invaded the place, he had received them 
with open arms, drinking with them, not sparing 
his very best wines — the good French wines. 
This generosity had been rewarded; his cellar 
saved his house. It was disagreeable to him 
now to remember that time; he was very French 
indeed once more, and was fond of speaking of 
his son Maxime, who, though but twenty years 
of age in 1870, had fought like a lion, and had 
been pretty severely wounded at Montretont. 
That wound of Maxime’s had perhaps saved his 
father; his financial credit, already pretty much 
shaken, might otherwise have suffered greatly 
from the shock of his glass against the glass of 
the enemy. 

“Mademoiselle Marca de Schneefeld! ” an- 
nounced, in a loud voice, a superb footman. 

There was a general start. Amélie, like a hen 
protecting its young, arose, rustling her silks. 
Maxime and his sisters looked at each other, and 
then at the door, full of curiosity, not exactly 
understanding who was being thus announced. 
Jean felt the blood rushing to his yellow face. 
Each and all had almost forgotten this little in- 
truder, who thus usurped the family name. 

Marca, dazzled by the brilliant light, remained 
hesitating at the threshold; she scarcely knew 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


87 


whether all she saw might not be some wonder- 
ful dream of beauty. She had felt half-dazed 
since she had been told that her godmother 
wished her to leave school instantly. Now, all 
this luxury, the dazzling light of a hundred wax 
candles dancing over the gold embroideries, the 
shimmering silks and satins, the extraordinary fur- 
niture, bewildered and delighted her. However, 
as she saw the silent group about the fire, she felt 
afraid, and blushed painfully. The silence only 
lasted a few seconds; the baron advanced toward 
her — but she scarcely noticed him. Passing her 
hand over her forehead, as though to gather to- 
gether vague memories, she exclaimed, going up 
to Maxime, who had changed less than his sisters: 

“ Why — but you are Maxime! How are you, 
cousin ? ” and frankly she presented her red 
cheek for a cousinly kiss. Then she turned to 
the girls, calling each by her name. 

The ice was broken; it would have been in- 
deed difficult to be stiff and cold with this simple, 
hearty-mannered girl. As she was blissfully ig- 
norant of all family jealousies and heart-burn- 
ings, she was quite at her ease, and took up her 
intimacy with her adopted cousins where it had 
been broken off years before. 

“ It is she who receives us — not we who re- 
ceive her,” whispered Amélie. 

And it was quite true. Baron Jean did not 
answer; he was studying the group of young 
people, talking gaily together, and his thoughts 
did not seem as gloomy as they had been. 


38 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


Marca was dressed very simply in some dark 
woollen stuff; but Olga had given strict orders 
about all those details, and the simple dress was 
well made and well worn; the dainty lace about 
throat and wrists, the pretty ribbons, gave a 
certain elegance to the toilette. She was a fine 
looking girl — that all had to acknowledge. Her 
black hair curled all about her face, contrasting 
with the whiteness of the skin and the healthy 
red of cheeks and lips; her eyes were dark blue, 
with black lashes and brows. The features were 
not very regular, but there was such an air of 
health and happiness on her young face, her 
eyes were so fearlessly frank, with so straight- 
forward and honest a glance, that it was a pleas- 
ure to see a creature so absolutely fresh, young, 
and happy. 

Laure, the baron’s elder daughter, had more 
regular beauty than Marca; but she had a city 
girl’s colorless complexion, and there was jn her 
whole appearance something a little stiff and 
conventional. She was the very type of what 
in France is called “ une jeune fille bien élevée ”; 
one who knew precisely what the world allowed, 
and what it disapproved; who had all her ac- 
tions, all her feelings too, under perfect control. 
As a young girl is bound to be very modest and 
even timid, she looked at those with whom she 
happened to be conversing, but cast down her 
eyes; she had long lashes, and knew it. Claire, 
the younger girl, was not yet “ out.” She was 
usually considered as very inferior to her hand- 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


39 


some sister; she was quite convinced of her 
want of beauty, and of her general insignifi- 
cance. This had at least the advantage of mak- 
ing her more natural and easy in her manners; 
to many, she seemed far more pleasing, on that 
account, than Laure, who seemed to have been 
made to order. 

But Maxime was the really important member 
of the family — handsome, dashing Maxime, 
with his crisp, fair hair, his superb mustache, 
his merry blue eyes, and his sonorous laugh. 
His mother adored him; indeed, she was proud 
of herself for having given the world so fine a 
specimen of humanity. When the baron grum- 
bled at his heir for spending so much money 
without dreaming of earning any, she would 
fiercely take his part. How could a splendid 
fellow like Maxime, who carried so proudly the 
red ribbon won on the battle-field, think of cast- 
ing up figures in a banker’s office ? Maxime, 
whom all women adored, could not be a clerk. 

“ I wish women would leave him alone. I 
never was adored by your sex, and I made my 
way in life. Feminine adoration empties the 
purse instead of filling it — only, as it is my 
purse and not his that is emptied, he does not 
mind! ” * 

Just then, this spoiled child of fortune was 
saying pretty things to this new cousin of his; 
and it was in the midst of young laughter that 
Olga, unannounced, entered. She smiled, well 


40 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


She was immediately surrounded and embraced, 
and for a few minutes all talked together and 
no one listened. Then on both sides came the 
look of curiosity which follows long separations. 

Olga was now forty-two years of age. One 
was forced to remember, to calculate, before 
believing this to be possible. She had no reason 
to fear the dazzling light of the many candles. 
Admirably dressed in dark cloth relieved by old 
gold trimmings, she did not seem to have just 
come from even a short journey. The fashion 
of the day allowed every curve of her admirable 
figure to be seen — and she slightly exaggerated 
the fashion. But it was especially the face 
w T hich attracted and puzzled one — that face 
which in her youth had never been beautiful; 
the insignificance of her features existed in the 
memory of those who were examining her with 
such curiosity, but existed only thus. The in- 
tensity of expression in the eyes made one for- 
get that they were too light; the mobility of the 
mouth redeemed the thinness of the ill-defined 
lips. It was Marca who echoed the feeling of 
all, when she exclaimed, clasping her hands in 
frank admiration : 

“ Oh, Marraine! — how beautiful you are! ” 

“ Do you think so, my dear ? ” answered 
Olga, half laughing, and taking the girl’s face 
between her hands. “ Let me tell you that 1 
never was as pretty as you!” She said this 
with careless unconcern; a little girl’s good 
looks were not likely to alarm her — she was far 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


41 


above such beauty, with her queen-like grace. 
Then she added, turning toward her sister-in- 
law, “ Our children have grown up without ask- 
ing leave; — it does not make us seem younger, 
my poor Amélie,” and she looked full at the 
stout baronne, and then cast a rapid glance at 
her own elegant person reflected in a tall mirror. 

Amélie at that moment cordially hated the 
“ adventuress,” not only for her triumphant 
beauty, which laughed at time, but especially 
for the cool way in which she had, in her little 
sentence, placed Marca on the same level as her 
own children. However, remembering her hus- 
band’s lectures, she answered with a sour smile : 

“ Every woman, my dear Olga, has not a sup- 
ply of the water of youth on her dressing-table. 
Besides, I have had children, and maternity 
quickly puts girlish airs to flight.” 

“ Ah, if you had but followed my advice — a 
cold bath every morning! I often add a lump 
of ice; — then a long walk or horseback ride. 
That is my water of youth — suppose you trv 
it ? ” 

Amélie, who hated cold water, and walks, and 
fresh air, shivered by way of answer. 

“ There is something strange in all this. I 
would wager my fortune that there is a sectet. 
But what is it? what can it be?” 

Baron Jean said this to himself rather than to 
his wife. Amélie was cross; she also was try- 
ing to pry into the cause of this mysterious 
change in Olga, while she undid her false hair 


42 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


at her fireside. She was decidedly out of tem- 
per; yet the evening had passed pleasantly 
enough. Olga had been most amiable to Max- 
ime and his sisters, promising them plenty of 
dancing, saying that she meant to keep open 
house for the sake of all the young people. 
But Amélie could not forgive her for treating 
Marca like her daughter — giving her the first 
place. She exclaimed, without answering her 
husband’s remark: 

“This child of the gutter — you will see that 
she will push us all away; there will be room 
but for her! ” 

“ She takes after the — furs, as Olga used to 
say. But do not fear; it is u caprice, and will 
not last. Olga never cared long for her toys. 
Yet she is not the same; there is a secret — a 
mystery. I must find it out — I will find it 
out ! ” 


CHAPTER V. 


A FEW weeks later, Marca, writing to Ma- 
dame Langlois, said: 

“You ask whether, among all the splendor I 
described in my last letter, I feel at home. I do, 
singularly so. From my window, which opens 
on the Parc Monceau, I see a crowd of pretty 
children, dressed in velvet or silk, with big red 
or blue sashes ; they make their sand-heaps with 
as much unconcern as though their fine clothes 
were torn rags and they were making mud-pies 
near the gutter ; they are quite accustomed to 
the beautiful lawns, green even in this season, to 
the fine trees, the masses of rare plants, all about 
them. Well, I also am playing with perfect 
unconcern ; I laugh, I chatter, I wear my pretty 
new dresses, as though I had never done any- 
thing else. I quite pity people who drive in 
hacks. Then sometimes I stop before a mirror, 
and examine myself seriously ; I pinch my 
cheek, and say, ‘My little Marca, is that you? 
— really you ? ’ And I have some difficulty in 
persuading myself that the fairy godmother, 
who has changed all things about me, has not 
changed even Marca herself. Yet I assure you 
that if her head is a little turned, the heart is 
still the same ; that is quite sure, for you are 
still in your old place — quite in the centre. 


44 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


“ But let us talk together about that same 
fairy godmother. Do you know, I am quite 
surprised not to see a magic light follow her in 
all her movements, like a theatre fairy. I told 
.her so the other day, and it seemed to amuse 
her. We had been the night before to see 
‘ Cinderella.’ She allows herself to be admired, 
and I make use of my privilege. I scarcely 
know whether she is beautiful — I rather think 
that she is not ; but she is superb. She attracts, 
and makes one a little afraid at the same time ; 
when she is with us, no one would think of look- 
ing at little girls, like my cousins and myself. 
She belongs to quite another order of beings. 
I so long to love her — and I dare not ! That 
must seem strange to you, dear Madame, you, 
who succeeded so well in making me forget that 
I had no mother ; but, really, I dare not. I am 
not naturally timid, yet when by chance we are 
alone, and I long to throw myself in her arms 
and thank her for all her kindness to me, some- 
thing keeps me back ; I feel that I should 
astonish her — displease her even. She seems to 
live in a world apart, where there is no place 
for me. Yet she is very good to me ; she for- 
gets my presence sometimes when no one is by, 
but otherwise she seems to take pleasure in 
bringing me forward, in making people under- 
stand that I am her adopted daughter, that I am 
called Marca de Schneefeld ; at such times, her 
attitude toward me is one of exquisite and deli- 
cate kindness ; she wishes to make me forget 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


45 


that I am an orphan, and quite dependent on 
her good will. 

‘‘For instance, when she gave that grand ball 
for my cousins and for me, I was the important 
person — the child of the house. But before 
speaking of the ball, I must tell you of a little 
scene which preceded it. You see that in spite 
of all your good training, I write, as I talk, with- 
out method — just as the thoughts tumble into 
my brain. 

“ You can well imagine into what a state of 
excitement the project put all three of us. We 
dreamed of nothing else ; ideal partners and 
pretty dresses filled our thoughts. Laure was 
the least foolish of us all, for she has been ‘ out ’ 
for the last two years ; she smiled a little con- 
temptuously at our school-girl ecstasies. But 
then Laure is far more important than we are ; 
her marriage is the great subject of interest just 
now; naturally, she thinks of nothing else. It 
seems that it is to take place within a year ; — 
the happy mortal has not yet been chosen, but 
that appears to be a minor Consideration. One 
would say that husbands are like toilettes : a 
dress is needed — the stuff is not chosen, but in 
the large shops everything is to be found, from 
the brocaded silks to the simple muslin ; after- 
wards one pays the cashier — and the material is 
sent to the dressmaker, so that the dress fits, 
once it is cut out ! Ah, ‘ there’s the rub.’ Claire, 
though she is a few months older than I, is 
looked upon as quite a little girl. I think her 


46 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


mother would willingly keep her in short frocks, 
with her hair braided down her back, until the 
elder sister is married. She did not wish her to 
appear at the ball ; but Marraine would not 
allow this, and we all obey her — the baron more 
than any of us. My private opinion is that he 
consults her about his investments. 

“We were all three to be dressed alike — in 
white, naturally ; only Laure and Claire had 
some pretty ornaments, such as young girls may 
wear, and, as you know, 1 possess nothing of 
the kind. It was the very day that Marraine 
found this out, and she scolded me for having 
said nothing on the subject. 

“ 4 Come with me, child; I dare say that among 
my baubles we may find something that will do.’ 

“You should see those ‘ baubles ’ of hers ! She 
took me into her favorite boudoir, next to her 
bed-room ; the most ravishing of boudoirs, all 
hung in creamy white, embroidered in gold, with 
plenty of mirrors, and an immense bay window, 
letting in floods of light. It is ill-named, for 
this boudoir is made to be happy in, to smile at 
life, to enjoy its luxury and its beauty. She 
caused a quantity of boxes of all sizes to be 
brought to her ; they covered the table, the 
chairs, tumbling over upon the carpet. 

“ ‘ Marraine,’ I said, ‘ let me open them haphaz- 
ard. I so love pretty things ! ’ 

“She smiled mockingly, agd threw herself 
back in her arm-chair, which was very low and 
wide. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


47 


“It seemed to me that these pretty velvet 
cases contained all the earth’s treasures. Soon 
the table was covered with glitteringgems, neck- 
laces of big diamonds, entire sets of pearls, of 
rubies, of emeralds, of sapphires, all thrown to- 
gether ; the sun made them all glitter again, 
throwing colored lights from one to the other. 
Soon they were heaped up, and still there were 
more and more. I could not tire looking at 
them ; I was now on the floor, taking out hand- 
fuls from the opened boxes. I had quite forgot- 
ten my godmother, the ball — everything. My 
head was turned by the beauty of the jewels. I 
had never seen anything so beautiful. The dia- 
monds especially captivated me, with the subtle 
color in the depths of their brilliant whiteness ; 
for them I left aside quantities of gold bracelets, 
of rings, of curious ornaments imitated from the 
antique. 

“‘So, little one, you are fond of jewels?’ 

“‘Fond! — that is scarcely the word,’ I ex- 
claimed, with a big sigh of happiness. 

“ ‘ Yet I cannot deck you out with diamonds !’ 

“I quite laughed at the idea. 

“ ‘Then,’ she added, ‘ yours is a sort of platonic 
affection.’ 

“ ‘ I do not know ; I only know that I love all 
beautiful things — that I like to look at them, to 
touch them ; but it never enters my mind that 
they might belong to me. I should like to see 
diamonds on your neck, Marraine ; you will wear 
them to-night — the most beautiful of all ! 
Please do ! ’ 


48 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


“ ‘ Perhaps. But we are wasting our time ; 
we must think of you. There, in that corner, is 
a box yet unopened ; if I am not mistaken, it 
contains some girlish ornaments of mine. They 
must be sadly out of fashion, I fear.’ 

“ ‘ It was an old black leather box, a little 
worn at the corners, and it contained a number 
of more modest trinkets, which certainly had not 
been looked at for many a year. My godmother 
examined them all, one after the other, with far 
more attention than she had given to her superb 
gems ; probably they reminded her of her youth, 
which I believed was not a happy one ; a pecu- 
liar smile hovered about her lips, and she glanced 
at a mirror which reflected the whole of her ad- 
mirable figure. I did not dare to interrupt her 
meditations. Suddenly she took up a pretty 
gold necklace and said : 

“ ‘Here, Marca, this will do very well ; it only 
needs a little cleaning. I wore it the first time 
M. de Schneefeld saw me ; — it may bring you 
luck also.’ 

“ I thanked her, but in reality I did not at all 
wish the necklace to bring me luck such as hers. 
M. de Schneefeld was old ; and I — well, I mean 
to love my husband, if I ever have one. As 
you can well imagine, I did not say this, but I 
think she, like other fairies, has the gift of read- 
ing people’s thoughts ; at any rate, her smile be- 
came more mocking than ever. I felt myself 
blush, and in my confusion I began to take up 
the old forgotten trinkets one after the other. I 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


49 


wasplaying with a slight gold bracelet, very thin 
and light, when suddenly shë snatched it from 
me, and looked at it with great attention ; then 
her eyes sought mine. 1 had never seen in 
them so strange a look. I was a little alarmed, 
and exclaimed. 

“ 4 What is it, Marraine ?’ 

“ ‘ This bracelet is not mine, it belongs to you, 
Marca ; ’ and as I looked at her, greatly puzzled, 
she added : ‘ It was on your mother’s wrist when 
she died. 5 

“ I rose to my feet. My mother ! Since the 
day when you answered my questions on that 
subject, telling me all you knew — and that was 
so little ! — 1 had not heard that word. One so 
easily puts aside troubling thoughts, unanswer- 
able questions — the little events of each day so 
fill up one’s life — that I had come to forget al- 
most that I must have had a mother. But now, 
I had touched something which had belonged to 
that unknown mother ; it was a material proof 
that she had lived, and thought, and loved. It 
seemed to me that I could scarcely breathe ; all 
the hidden feelings of my nature, all the smoth- 
ered longings of my childhood, all the passionate 
yearning to be something to some one, not to be 
like a waif tossed by every wind, — all that 
rushed to my heart. I was no longer afraid of 
my godmother. I wanted to know — I would 
know ; it was my right. I threw myself down 
by her, putting my arms about her, and said : 

“ 4 Dear Marraine, tell me about her ! — pray, 

4 


50 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


pray tell me what she was like, who she was, 
that I may at last fancy I see her in my dreams ! 
How am I to love my mother if I know nothing 
about her? And all children love their mother, 
do they not? Be good to me } Marraine! — tell 
me about her ! You must have known her, 
since this bracelet is in your possession ! 5 

“ I went on, scarcely knowing what I was say- 
ing ; the words came thick and fast, and the 
sobs too ; I was half crazed. But at last I felt 
that she freed herself from my arms, a little 
roughly. 

“ ‘ Remember once for all, Marca, that I ob- 
ject to scenes.’ 

“ My tears stopped instantly. I did not know 
this new tone of her voice — so hard, so cold, so 
pitiless. I arose, but was forced to lean against 
the table for support. Seeing the effect she had 
produced, she added in her usual tone of care- 
less kindness: 

“ ‘Come, Marca, be reasonable, my child. 
Am I not your mother ? Surely that is suffi- 
cient for your happiness. Some day or other I 
will tell you the whole story, since you so wish 
to know it ; — only the ball is for to-night, and 
we must all be gay and prétty. I do not mean 
my adopted daughter to make her first appear- 
ance in the gay world with swollen eyes, — and I 
warn you, child, the story is a sad one. Come, 
my dear, smile again ; play with my jewels, be 
gay and bright, — that is all I ask of you. I 
wish to be surrounded by happy faces.’ 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


51 


“ 4 May I keep the bracelet ? ’ I did my best 
to steady my voice. 

“ 4 Certainly ; it belongs to you.’ 

44 ‘Will you tell me one thing — only one? — 
and then, Marraine, I promise never to trouble 
you again on the subject.’ 

“ 4 On that condition, I will answer one ques- 
tion — not more.’ 

44 4 How old was she when she died ? ’ 

44 4 Sixteen.’ 

44 Sixteen — and T am seventeen. I felt myself 
so strong, so full of life, that there came over 
me a singular pity for this poor young mother, 
who had died at sixteen. I kissed the bracelet, 
saying very low, 4 My poor little mamma — my 
poor little mamma.’ Then feeling that the sobs 
were beginning to shake me once more, I rap 
out, so as not to annoy my benefactress by 
another scene. 

44 Yet that very evening, at the ball, in spite 
of my real emotion, I was not sad. I could not 
be, even though I felt a great contempt for my 
own weakness. But it was such pleasure to find 
myself, prettily dressed, in the ball-room, all 
blazing with lights, sweet smelling with flowers ; 
to be whirled along to the music of delicious 
waltzes — you remember how fond I was of danc- 
ing even at school ; to be surrounded by all 
sorts of flattering attention ; — yes, it was so 
delightful that I fear my head was a little 
turned. Yet, when the melody softened to 
minor chords, even as I danced, the saddened 


52 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


music struck at my heart, and in my very laugh 
there seemed to be an echo of the morning’s 
sobs. By a singular perversity of my nature, it 
seemed to me that those moments of passing 
sadness only gave greater relief to the joy of 
living, to the glory of being young, and of see- 
ing the happy future stretch out before me. 

“ I have already said that my godmother 
treated me as the queen of the ball. I was pre- 
sented as her adopted daughter, as the child of 
the house. It is so pleasant to be spoiled, to be 
made much of, that it was only later that I under- 
stood that Laure was a little jealous of me. 
She is older than I, and much handsomer, and 
the first place ought to have belonged to her. 
The gay noise and whirl of a first ball make 
one forget many things that it would be wise to 
remember. Now, I quite blush when I think of 
a silly thing I did. In the midst of a waltz I 
saw that Laure was seated and looked rather 
disconsolate, so, leaving my partner a moment, 
I said : 

“ ‘You seem dull, Laure ; shall I find you a 
partner ? ’ 

“ I never shall forget the look with which she 
answered : 

“ ‘ Thanks. Had I chosen to dance, I should 
not have needed your protection to do so.’ 

“ How foolishly and needlessly one can make 
enemies ! It is not my dear little Claire who 
would have answered me thus — she is really 
fond of me. I fear she is not always very happy 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


53 


at home, where she is made to feel that she is 
not pretty. For my part, I like her little irregu- 
lar face, with its turned-up nose ; there is ex- 
pression and feeling in it. I was saying so to 
Maxime, as we rested in the midst of a dance ; 
we had taken refuge near a window. He is 
very kind and nice to me ; I dare say he con- 
siders me still somewhat as a school-girl, but he 
does not show it unpleasantly ; besides, he is so 
gay and good-natured that one would forgive 
him many things. I felt that he was looking at 
me a good deal — probably because he had never 
before seen me dressed for a ball ; I scarcely 
know why, but my talk about Claire became 
rather incoherent. At last I said, with some 
impatience : 

“ 4 Do you know that it is very rude not to 
answer? I have been talking to you for the 
last quarter of an hour ; and monologues are 
out of fashion.’ 

“ £ Tell me one thing, Marca. Why do you use 
the familiar thou when you address my sisters, 
and the formal you when you address me ? ’ 

“ I raised my eyes to his, and suddenly, with- 
out any reason, I blushed. 

“ 4 That is not answering my remarks about 
Claire.’ 

“ ‘ Claire is a good little girl, but I am talking 
to you about another little girl. We are cousins, 
are we not ? — or at least as good as cousins. 
Well, I have been making serious inquiries about 
cousinly rights, and I find that you are going 


54 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


against all known rules when you speak to 
me so solemnly. Suppose we change all that, 
Marca? ’ 

“I did my best to answer lightly, but I could 
not; I scarcely know whether my thoughts took 
any distinct shape, but it seemed to me that the 
music caught up and repeated his words. Just 
then some phrases of a conversation came to our 
ears; we were silent, and heard distinctly the 
words of two ladies; we were half hidden by the 
window curtains, so that they were quite uncon- 
scious of being overheard. 

“ 4 She is not ugly; but who is she? — where 
does she come from ? — does she belong to our 
world ? ’ 

“ 4 My dear, a girl belongs to what world she 
chooses, when she has a princess’s dower, — and 
it seems that Olga means to be generous; she 
will marry the handsome Maxime — that is a 
matter of course.’ 

“ Maxime was smiling, with mocking enjoy- 
ment of my blushes, of my awkward attempts at 
making believe that I had not heard. I said 
that I wanted to finish the waltz, and he almost 
carried me off in his arms. 

“ And that is happiness. How sweet, how 
good it is ! I should have liked to dance always, 
held up by his strong arm, with the intoxicating 
music sounding in my ears. If it were really 
true ! — if — but I scarcely dare say what is in 
my mind; I blush even while I write, though I am 
alone; and with it all I am so happy, so very 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


55 


happy, that I cannot help speaking of it to the 
best friend I have in this world. 

“ Yet, after that waltz, even while thinking of 
nothing but Maxime, I avoided him. I tried to 
be amiable with the other gentlemen, but it was 
an effort. I went up to my godmother, who 
seemed to have stepped out of some gorgeous 
old picture. She was dressed in some kind of 
pale blue brocaded silk, and wore the diamonds 
I had so admired some hours earlier. 

“ ‘Well, little one, are you pleased ? ’ 

“ Pleased ! — as though that could express my 
feelings ! I was madly happy ; — I longed to 
embrace her. 

“ She was surrounded by gentlemen, who must 
have been very great personages indeed, for they 
wore big glittering orders on their coats, which, 
I own, struck me as rather ludicrous. Just as I 
joined her one of these fine gentlemen advanced, 
followed by a young man who seemed very much 
embarrassed; he was far from handsome, but his 
very ugliness was interesting. 

“ ‘ Madame,’ pompously said the old gentleman, 
‘ all your surroundings proclaim you to be an 
artist in your feelings; it is evident that your 
house will attract all men of genius, and it is 
as a man of genius that 1 present to you one of 
your countrymen, Mr. Ivan Nariskine.’ 

“ The pompous gentleman seemed so well 
pleased with his own eloquence that he paid but 
little attention either to his ‘ genius ’ or to my 
godmother either. I,_ having made no fine 


56 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


speech, examined the new-comer with great in- 
terest. His plain face was illumined; he seemed 
to forget where he was; he scarcely even bowed; 
his eyes rested on the baronne with such evident 
admiration that I immediately felt great sympa- 
thy with the ugly man of genius; I was sure that 
he had fallen suddenly and madly in love with 
Marraine — and I am very fond of love stories ! 
As to her, she merely inclined her head slightly, 
but I never saw her smile as she did at that mo- 
ment; it must be true that she is attracted by 
great talent. I quite started when she spoke; 
her voice was low, but it was not her usual voice. 

44 4 Mr. Nariskine scarcely needed a presenta- 
tion ; we are almost old acquaintances. I went to 
his studio in St. Petersburg once; and a picture 
of his occupies the place of honor in my gallery,’ 
and she held out her hand. 

44 4 What to the poor painter was a great event, 
might well have been forgotten by you, Madame 
la Baronne.’ 

44 There was a moment’s silence, which struck 
me as rather strange; then my godmother said 
to me: 

44 4 Marca, take Mr. Nariskine to the gallery, 
that he may see whether his picture is well 
placed. This is my adopted daughter, Mr. 
Nariskine,’ she added, by way of introduction. 

44 Mr. Nariskine looked at me with such evi- 
dent amazement that I felt slightly irritated. 
During the one visit which he had received from 
the baronne she had not spoken to him of me 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


57 


evidently — a fact which need have surprised no 
one save a man of genius. I think I showed a 
little of the impatience I felt, in the tone with 
which I said : 

“ ‘ Must I offer you my arm, Monsieur ? ’ 

“ ‘ I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle,’ — and he 
began to lead me across the ball-room, like a 
man in a dream. 

“ ‘ But you know the way, then,’ . 
and indeed he was taking me straight to the 
gallery. He stopped short, and became quite 
pale; then, stammering like a man accused of 
some crime, gave me to understand that, as art- 
ist, he had given some advice to the man who 
had arranged the mansion, and thus he had seen 
the place ‘ before the arrival of Madame la Bar- 
onne — oh, long before!’ If all men of genius 
are like my new acquaintance, they are decid- 
edly a queer set. 

“ I had never before noticed Mr. Nariskine’s 
picture more than the others. It is a large 
composition, representing the interior of an old 
curiosity shop; a Jew, aided by a young girl of 
extraordinary beauty, is showing some fine old 
arms to a young cavalier, who looks at the girl 
while making a pretense of listening to the 
merchant. It struck me as being a subject 
made for a small canvas — dear me! I am criti- 
cising, it seems to me! — whereas the figures 
were almost life-size, and patiently studied: the 
mediaeval costumes, the picturesque disorder of 
curious old objects of every kind, the singularly 


58 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


vivid and natural flesh tints, all lighted by a 
clear light streaming in through the tiny dia- 
mond panes of a large window, formed a very 
harmonious whole. As I examined the picture, 
the presence of the painter at my side had, per- 
haps, some influence on my judgment. I felt 
that this was excellent solid painting, quite dif- 
ferent from the pink-and-white, creamy, unreal 
pictures which so many of our friends admire; 
that the blood might course under the skin. 
The expression of the faces, the attitudes of the 
three personages, were true to nature, and ren- 
dered, after much patient and sincere study, 
from real life. It was strong work, yet there 
was nothing hard in it; the stuffs were largely 
painted, the figures supple and graceful. I for- 
got to compliment the painter; I was absorbed 
and interested in the group, as though it had 
been a living one. 

“We were alone in the gallery; the sound of 
music came to us from the ball-room, but did 
not disturb the quiet of the place. Suddenly 
I felt that my companion was studying me, so I 
looked up and said: 

“ ‘ I am not polite, am I ? I ought to have 
found some pretty compliment to address to so 
great a painter.’ 

“ ‘ The attention which you deigned to bestow 
on my work was the best of all compliments,’ he 
replied. 

“ ‘ I looked at it, because it seemed to me 
that I saw something real and living in your 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


59 


picture. But, between ourselves, I know noth- 
ing of the matter. I have just left school, and 
am very ignorant; I have only my instinct to 
guide me. A year hence, if you like, I will 
speak learnedly of your talent.’ 

“‘Your instinct suffices — since it is not se- 
vere toward me; whereas your learned criticism 
might be.’ Then he added, hesitatingly, ‘ you 
have just left school; — a French or Russian 
school ? ’ 

“ £ French; I never was in Russia, — that 1 
know of,’ I added under my breath; for after 
all, I do not even know where I was born. He 
did not dare to question me further, but I 
guessed that his curiosity was aroused. I knew 
I must get hardened to this sort of thing, and 
•learn to answer questions quietly; so I went on, 
with calmness, ‘I am an orphan; I owe all I am 
and all T have to my godmother.’ 

“ ‘ She is goodness itself — is she not ? ’ he 
said this eagerly, and it sounded like a real ques- 
tion rather than like a mere exclamation. Mr. 
Nariskine seems incapable of taking anything 
lightly. You have always taught me, above all 
other things, an absolute respect for truth; and 
his question troubled me. 

“ ‘ Is she good? I do not know; all I can 
say is that her conduct toward me has been 
admirably generous and kind,’ I said. 4 She 
gives without seeming to know that she is gen- 
erous; it is as natural as her breathing, and, I 
think, as unconscious.’ 


60 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


“ ‘That is it! Why, then, she is simply sub- 
lime — is she not ? ’ 

“ This idea seemed to take possession of him, 
and he remained absorbed in thought. I own 
that I was beginning to find that my companion 
was a very strange man, and I greatly wished 
myself in the ball-room once more. T could 
almost see my partner looking for me in every 
corner. At last I said, laughing: 

“ ‘ I own that among all her kindnesses to 
me, I place this ball in the front rank. Think 
of it! it is my first ball — and I am so fond of 
dancing! ’ 

“ ‘ Ah, Mademoiselle! how cordially you must 
detest me! I am but an uncivilized man of the 
rude Northern countries. What can I do to 
obtain my pardon ? ’ 

“ ‘ By way of penance, you must waltz with 
me. Do not fear; the music will soon cease. 
The gentleman to whom I had promised this 
waltz must have given up finding me, and I have 
promised myself not to miss a single dance.’ 

“ My partner from the rude Northern climes, 
I must confess, dances abominably. . . .But 

this letter will never come to an end if I describe 
at such length each small incident — incidents 
which seem to me very wonderful, but which 
may have small interest for you, dear friend. 
Write to me soon, that I may feel, even if I am 
not allowed to see you often, that you do not 
forget me, and that I am still your little 

“Marc a.” 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


61 


A week later, Marca received this note, as 
answer to her long letter: 

“ No, dear child, I do not forget you; but I 
am ill and very sad. As I cannot tell you the 
cause of my grief, I beg you to pity me, and to 
forgive me for not answering otherwise your 
dear letter. I have to give up my school, which 
for so many years has been to me a source of 
consolation and of work — that best of all con- 
solations. I am in the midst of painful money 
troubles. I mean to spend in Paris. the short 
space of time which I yet have to live; and 
when I have chosen my modest refuge, I shall 
write again, hoping that your godmother will 
allow you to see once more your old friend 

“Jacqueline Langlois.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


VAN NARISKINE stood before the pict- 



I ure destined to the salon , in deep medita- 
tion. He was a tall fellow, very plain, as Marca 
had observed; but there was such an expression 
of resolution and of individuality in his deep-set 
eyes, and in his whole countenance, that one 
soon forgot to think about the irregularity of his 
features. 

His painting-room was not one of those de- 
lightful studios, half boudoir, half conservatory, 
with a thousand knick-knacks and high spring- 
ing palms, with low cushioned divans, and sweet- 
smelling flowers, where the fashionable artists of 
the day produce their pretty little highly finished 
pictures, so smooth to the eye, so meaningless 
besides; it was simply a painting-room. One 
felt that the artist was a worker — that he did 
not notice the disorder of the place, being so 
much absorbed. Certain contrasts were visible, 
which made one guess that Ivan had been very 
poor, and that fortune was beginning to smile at 
him; the stove was of the cheapest kind, the 
easel was of plain whitewood, while in a corner 
was thrown a superb Oriental carpet which he 
had not yet found time to have put down; rare 
old tapestries were nailed up here and there, 
looking somewhat out of keeping with the re- 
maining signs of poverty and disorder. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


63 


The picture he was studying was nearly fin- 
ished. The subject was, as usual with him, very 
simple; it represented the interior of a studio, 
not like his, but a dainty place crowded with 
beautiful things, old carved chests, bits of “ Re- 
naissance ” furniture, wonderful draperies, ex- 
quisite pieces of glass and china. A soft light 
fell from above upon the model; the painter 
himself, a handsome young man in modern vel- 
vet jacket, was concentrating all his attention 
on a miniature canvas; and one felt, merely by 
looking at his way of holding his brush, that the 
tiny picture would be smoothly painted, pink 
and white and pretty and porcelain-like. The 
model, a very young girl, was marvellously ren- 
dered. She was performing her part conscien- 
tiously. She seemed a little benumbed with the 
long sitting, and somewhat cold; the flesh-tints 
were exquisite and scrupulously true to nature. 
On the pretty, delicate, somewhat sickly face 
was written the poor child’s story. She deserved 
a better fate than that which had fallen to her; 
she blushed to show herself thus. She was still 
so young that she had not grown hardened. 
But her mother had made a model of her, and 
how could she resist? Not far from the young 
girl sat this mother, knitting in hand. Here 
“realism,” in the fullest sense of the word, 
reigned supreme; this woman also told her story; 
everything was studied and observed, from the 
common shawl tied behind the waist to the 
wrinkles on the sordid face. 


64 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


Ivan had put into this picture all the passion 
and power of his nature. The three figures, 
half-size, stood out from all the rest; but the 
accessories had been treated with scrupulous 
care, and it had required all his firmness to keep 
them well in the background. A certain cor- 
ner of his picture, lost in the shade, had given 
him weeks of hard work, and merely served as 
a sombre tone in the general harmony, He was 
not ill-pleased with the result. Thus far he 
had never succeeded so well in subduing his tal- 
ent, in making it serve his idea. The original 
roughness and violence of his painting was soft- 
ened down to harmony; the abrupt changes 
from intense black to crude light, which had 
distinguished his earlier attempts, no longer 
shocked the eye; he was beginning to be mas- 
ter in the creamy whites, the delicate half-tints, 
without which painting remains ever crude and 
incomplete. 

While examining his work, he thought of the 
painful years which now lay far behind him; of 
the struggle not only with his circumstances but 
with his talent. He well remembered his first 
attempts — the rough sketches, hard and crude. 
He seemed yet to hear the reproaches of his wid- 
owed mother; she was very poor when he chose a 
profession which, according to her, was one which 
nine times out of ten led to the poor-house, 
whereas he might have obtained, with some 
good recommendations, the position of govern- 
ment clerk which his father had filled — it was 


.4 MERE CAPRICE. 


65 


not brilliant, but it gave one bread, at least. 
Oh, those hard and cruel years of waiting ! It 
needed a great faith in oneself not to succumb; 
how could he persuade others that in those 
rough and ugly sketches lay the germ of orig- 
inal talent ? At times he himself doubted. At 
last, a great personage, one who sought to en- 
courage all native talent, procured for the young 
painter a small yearly allowance, and sent him 
to study in the French schools. The dreams of 
success and glory with which he first trod the 
Paris streets soon vanished. A stranger re- 
mains long a stranger in the great city. Some- 
times, fashion having spoken, the very title of 
stranger becomes a mark of distinction and 
great favor; but that is a very rare case, and 
until fashion deigns to speak, the intruder has 
great difficulty in forcing his way, — there are so 
many before him, and the spirit of caste is such 
that the unlucky foreigner is made to under- 
stand that not being born under the French sky 
is a crime for which he must do penance. 

He lived the life of a hermit, working with a 
sort of rage. Like a singer whose voice is pow- 
erful but hard to manage, he had to work more 
than his fellows, and for less brilliant results. 
All the joys of youth were denied to this awk- 
ward, shy man, who did not know how to snatch 
them and make them his. Women laughed and 
turned aside as he silently went his way. In 
Russia — where he returned, the patience of his 
patron having given way — success at last came 
5 


66 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


to him. A picture — the one now in Baronne 
Olga’s possession — obtained a medal at a Paris 
exhibition, and suddenly his countrymen discov- 
ered that he had talent; then 

A knock at the door interrupted his medita- 
tions. “ Con:e in!” he cried, without turning 
around: as he received few visits save those of 
models in search of work. 

There was a slight hesitation; then came a 
pretty rustle of silks and long skirts. He 
turned quickly, and half staggered; an instant 
later he was at the side of the woman who had 
entered, kissing her hands, with adoration in his 
eyes. 

It was the Baronne Olga de Schneefeld. She 
laughed at him, though she was moved, and felt 
happy to know that she was capable of so real 
an emotion. They sat down side by side. 

“ It is so long since I have seen you,” he said. 
“ And do you count last evening as nothing? ” 
“ That was cruel torture — nothing else. To 
see you in the midst of your splendor, sur- 
rounded by those brainless men, who had as 
much right as I myself to look upon your 
beauty, to approach you, to speak to you, lost 
in that crowd, I suffered horribly. Ah, Olga! — 
how I hated your millions! — how I wished to 
tear the diamonds from your neck! — how I 
longed to make you poor, as I am, for then at 
last you would be mine — my wife ! ” 

“You are ungrateful, Ivan ; pray speak of 
my millions with more respect. I myself do not 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


67 


despise them. Without their aid, would I, on a 
certain day, have gone boldly to a painter’s 
studio to purchase his best picture? My poor 
Ivan, what a sad-looking fellow you were in 
those days ! how ill-combed, too ! ” She was try- 
ing to laugh him out of his sombre mood ; but 
he repeated : 

“But for your fortune, I might have married 
you.” 

“ Bah ! Marriage has its prosaic side — espe- 
cially when it is accompanied with that poverty 
which you seem to prize, as others prize wealth. 
Fancy me, mending your socks, wrapped in a 
cheap dressing-gown, and groaning over the 
butcher’s bills ! Believe me, dear friend, you are 
too much of an artist not to appreciate the ac- 
cessories of a picture. You always see me at 
my best ; I choose to make myself beautiful for 
you alone ; and in loving me, you love many 
things without knowing that you do so. Be- 
sides,” she added, caressingly, “ since you know 
that I love you . . .” 

She could do with him what she chose. A 
glance of hers made him half-mad with love. 

“ Stay,” whispered he. 

“ Not to-day ; Marca and Clare are waiting 
for me in the carriage.” 

Ivan started to his feet. 

“ They are down-stairs ? — they know that you 
are here ? But that is madness ! ” 

“ The very reverse — so that 1 do not stay too 
long. Women usually are lost through too 


68 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


much prudence. In my case, everything is sim- 
ple and easily explained. A friend presents a 
painter of talent . . . dear me, Ivan, what a 

poor actor you are !... Having already a 
work of his, I desire to have another for my 
gallery. I have a fancy, which he is to exe- 
cute ; instead of ordinary portraits, I mean to 
have a picture representing a modern interior, 
such as he knows so well how to paint ; and we 
— my adopted daughter and myself — will serve 
as models. I go to his studio to speak of this, 
invite him to dinner — it is for Tuesday — and 
thus, quietly and naturally, the great painter be- 
comes the friend of the family. The picture 
will not be finished when summer comes, and in 
order to work in peace and quiet, the artist ac- 
companies us when we go to the country. Can 
anything be more simple ? ” 

“ To see you always surrounded by others ! 

. . . T am, as you say, so poor an actor ! Last 
night I came near betraying myself to that little 
girl.” Then he abruptly added : “ Who and 
what is she ? ” 

“ An orphan.” 

“ You never spoke to me of her.” 

“ I am not given to talk of my different chari- 
ties. Then, to tell the truth, having given 
orders to have all her bills paid, I had pretty 
nearly forgotten her. Does she displease you ? ” 
“ All who have a right to love you, to live 
near you, are my natural enemies. Are you 
fond of her ?” 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


69 


“I? — oh, dear, no, not particularly. She 
amuses me, like the others. I pull a string, and 
my puppets dance for my pleasure. I was born 
a looker-on. I even like to give myself the 
spectacle of my own feelings — and I assure you 
that the spectacle is a curious one sometimes.” 

Then, rising, she sauntered up to his picture. 

“ You have worked hard since Florence. It 
is your masterpiece.” 

“I want you to be proud of me.” 

“ And I shall not be satisfied until those vain 
Frenchmen bow down to you, as to a master. 
You have what they have not — truth.” 

She made some slight criticisms — the criti- 
cisms of a woman of taste who knew all the 
weak points of her painter. Then she turned 
toward the door. 

« Already ? ” 

“ I have been here half an hour, at least ; 
and Marca said tome : 4 Take care, Marraine ! — 
that painter is in love with you.’ If I stay 
longer, she will be convinced of the fact.” 

“ Do you love me, Olga, — or is my adoration 
for you merely a subject of philosophical curi- 
osity ? ” 

She did not answer ; but turning toward him, 
she looked him in the eyes, smiling with an 
adorable smile. He was satisfied. 

Baron Jean had guessed aright. There was a 
secret in his sister-in-law’s life, but a secret so 
well guarded that, so far, none had even sus- 
pected the truth. 


CHAPTER VIL 


“/CONFESS that you hate me for keeping 
you here against your will, Miss Marca.” 

Ivan was making a sketch of the young girl, 
and had been so absorbed and interested that he 
had scarcely before noticed her very visible im- 
patience. Artists are often pitiless. Marca was 
greatly bored; she stood first on one foot, then 
on the other, turned her head, gave a little sigh, 
twisted her neck so as to catch a glimpse of a 
group at the other side of the winter garden, 
and finally began to hum a ballet air which she 
had heard the night before at the opera; — in one 
word, she might have been charming as a young 
lady, but as a model she was simply detestable. 
Ivan, who was beginning to “ see ” his picture, 
had already made a number of pencil sketches 
from each of his sitters; he had become an every- 
day guest at the house. 

“ Hate you ? — well, let us put it a little more 
mildly. I only wish you were not an artist — or 
that I were not your sitter.” 

She said this with a spoiled child’s pout, 
which made him smile. She was terribly frank; 
it amused Olga, so that she felt encouraged to 
say all that passed through her head. She was 
considered by Amélie and her elder daughter a 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


71 


very ill-behaved girl; her way of looking fear- 
lessly at those with whom she conversed, even 
gentlemen, greatly shocked the stout baronne. 

“ From the very first time I met you, I have 
been unfortunate, and spoiled some pleasure of 
yours.” 

“ I have forgiven that lost dance of mine, long 
ago; but this last offence — making me stand 
here for an hour or two while the others are 
laughing over yonder — is more serious. I have 
a great mind to make you waltz with me again, 
by way of penance; the absence of music would 
not embarrass you, as you have no idea of time 
or tune, — and, at any rate, while making your 
feet work, your hands would be at peace — and 
the sitting would be over.” 

“One single instant; — saying disagreeable 
things to me gives you such an adorable expres- 
sion of malicious pleasure that I must profit by 
the occasion.” 

“Oh, in that case I shall become sweet and 
amiable! ” 

“ That is so little in your way that you would 
not know how to begin.” 

Olga, having left the other group just in time 
to hear the last remarks, looked over the artist’s 
shoulder to see what he was doing, and said 
smilingly: 

“ I am afraid, Mr. Nariskine, that I have given 
you an impossible task; this impertinent child 
cannot keep still a moment.” 

“ She has already acknowledged her frank 


72 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


aversion to the artist, so the artist gives her per- 
mission to leave him.” 

“ Really ? — I may go ? ” and scarcely waiting 
for the desired answer, she darted away toward 
the other young people, and soon her gay laugh 
was heard mingling with that of Maxime. 

Olga seated herself near her painter, and 
seemed to take great interest in the sketches 
which he spread on the table between them. 

This large conservatory, or rather winter gar- 
den, as it was called, formed the most exquisite 
studio that an artist could dream of. The soft 
diffused light gave great value to the delicate 
flesh tints, without any harsh shadows. Then 
the place itself was a marvel of tropical beauty. 
In the centre, a superb palm tree spread its huge 
leaves up to the glass roof; — the conservatory was 
immensely high; small serpentine alleys wound 
in and out of this nest of southern verdure, 
making the place seem very large; there was as 
little apparent symmetry as possible; it was a 
fanciful dream of beauty, — here, a mass of 
flowering camellia bushes stopped the way; there, 
low plants, such as begonias, with blood-stained 
leaves, dracæna, that seemed cut out of some 
metal, allowed one to see beyond a tiny gurgling 
fountain, the water of which dripped from a rock 
and fell on large-leaved nenuphars; the edge of 
the fountain was hidden by various kinds of 
grasses, dotted with the tiniest of flowerets, with 
maiden-hair and many-tinted mosses. 

Ivan Nariskine never began a picture without 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


73 


having thought long and deeply. He hesitated 
for weeks before making up his mind, trying 
many combinations of figures, many arrange- 
ments of background, before deciding; then, at 
last, when his plan quite satisfied him, he went 
boldly enough to work, all hesitation being quite 
put aside. The family picture which Olga had 
imagined, and which had served as a pretext for 
bringing Ivan into the intimacy of her house- 
hold, gave him even more trouble than usual. 
She wished to surround herself with all her 
young people; she would not exclude her 
brother-in-law’s children from the group, even 
while she required that Marca should, there as 
elsewhere, occupy the first place, after herself. 
The picture was to represent a tea-party in the 
conservatory; but the grouping of the figures 
was not yet decided upon. 

Perhaps Ivan did not care to make up his 
mind too rapidly. His picture for the Spring 
exhibition was quite finished, and he had taken 
a dislike to his bare, cold painting-room. He 
spent a great part of each day in this delicious 
winter garden, which seemed to him a very par- 
adise on earth ; his conscience was at peace, 
since each day he made some sketch, some pen- 
cil drawing from one or another of his sitters. 
He was beginning to be a rather better actor, 
and no one seemed to suspect the truth — not 
even Baron Jean, who watched his sister-in-law 
with curious eyes. Ivan’s fierce pride insensibly 
softened down, in the luxurious hot-house atmos- 


74 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


phere. The strong odor of all these exotic 
plants, of all these rich, strange flowers, mingled 
together in the moist heat of the place, acted 
little by little on the nerves, and produced a sort of 
intoxication, which caused him to speak low, with 
slower intonations than usual ; and the things 
thus whispered in the ear of a loved woman 
took something of the soft voluptuousness of 
the place. 

“ We do not disturb you ? — No ?... I 
was told you were here, and my little Zeé and I 
know the way ; we left your solemn footman in 
the lurch. . . . How much better to sit here 

than in-doors! A corner of the tropics under our 
sad northern skies ! — who was it said that the 
other day? I have such a poor memory! . 

How are you, dear baronne ? But I need not 
ask ; — no, really you are so lovely that you 
must allow me to embrace you ! Anyone so 
beautiful as you has done her duty to her coun- 
try — as they say of women with a dozen chil- 
dren. . . . But talking of children, where 

are your young people ? Ah ! yes, I see them 
over yonder with the handsome Maxime. Come, 
Laure, Marca, Claire, come here ! ” 

It would be difficult to give an idea of the ra- 
pidity with which this torrent of words fell from 
the visitor’s lips. Olga had started when the 
Countess de Vignon had burst into the garden ; 
but she had quickly regained her composure. 
Madamé de Vignon, beside being very near- 
sighted, was so absolutely engrossed with her 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


75 


dear person, her surprising toilette, her little 
girl, and even her husband, who meekly followed 
at the distance imposed upon him by his wife’s 
gorgeous train, that she was incapable of notic- 
ing much beside. And after all, an artistic con- 
sultation about the much-talked-of picture was 
a most natural thing. While Madame de Vig- 
non and her husband were shaking hands with 
all the young people, little Zeé — a delicious three- 
year-old baby, with long golden fluffy hair — 
having, with the sagacity of her age, discovered 
a plate of cakes on the little table, reached up for 
them. 

“ That is what we need — what I have been 
trying to find as a connecting link between 
my two groups,” said Nariskine, drawing Olga’s 
attention to the child. Quickly taking up his 
sketch-book, he dashed in the little figure. Zeé, 
much absorbed in her one thought, found her- 
self too small to get at the sweets; she %vas on 
tip-toe, and had almost succeeded, when the 
slight table against which she leaned too heav- 
ily suddenly tipped over, and drawing, cakes, 
table, baby and all, rolled together on the floor. 
There was no great harm done, as Miss Zeé was 
unhurt ; she was soon installed among the ruins, 
wetting the cakes with her tears, and eating 
them between her sobs. 

“Ah, Mr. Nariskine, how true your artist’s in- 
stinct is! ” the delighted mother rattled on vol- 
ubly. “ Your picture would not be complete 
without a child in it! Do you know, our fore- 


70 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


fathers did not understand the dear little crea- 
tures ; we do. Everything now is done for the 
children. See how we dote on them, how we 
dress them ! Our best authors write for them, 
our best artists paint them. Carolus Duran 
really persecutes me about a big portrait of my 
Zeé, which he wants to paint for the salon. Is 
she not adorable — the little darling! Well, it 
seems I was just like her at that age! ” Then, 
in a changed voice, she called out warningly: 
“ M. de Vignon! ” 

M. de Vignon, whose usual occupation was 
the sucking of his cane-knob while he listened 
to his wife’s eternal talk, had moved aside and 
was making Laure laugh under her breath. 

“ What, my dear ? ” mildly answered the 
well-disciplined husband. “I was not saying 
anything at all improper, was I, Miss Laure ? 
Oh, I am not dangerous! I am a model hus- 
band. *A little more, and my wife would lead 
me about by a string — you know, a dear little 
string fastened to a dear little collar on which 
one might read, ‘ Maurice, belonging to the 
Countess de Vignon, such a street, such a num- 
ber’; you will see that she will come to it.” 

The count, perhaps by way of contrast to his 
wife, spoke very slowly; he always imitated 
what he thought was English style, so much so 
that he had almost acquired a British accent, 
and cultivated a hesitation in his speech. He 
always carried a square glass in one eye — not 
that he was at all near-sighted, but because he 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


77 


thought that was necessary to the general “ get- 
up,” as were also the English clothes and the 
jockey pin in his cravat. M. de.Vignon had led 
a terribly dissipated life in his day; and his 
mother — who, for the relief of her friends, had 
' at last been gathered to her ancestors, — had 
found a wife for him in the person of a trades- 
man’s daughter, whose greatest idea of human 
bliss was to forget the paternal shop and play 
at being countess. The gay Maurice, being 
quite ruined, had submitted to the inevitable, 
promising himself, however, that he would form 
his wife; but it soon became evident that he 
was quite under the unaristocratic thumb of 
this turbulent, obstinate, narrow-minded, thin- 
natured little woman. The young countess, 
who did not disdain to employ domestic spies, 
discovered certain irregularities in her lord’s pri- 
vate life; and finally, after he had made some 
pretty heavy debts, bought up all his bills, pay- 
ing the creditors up to the last farthing. She 
loved her money, but she loved power more. 
Maurice was at her mercy; she was his one 
creditor, and she took advantage of this admira- 
ble position to put the key of the money-box in 
her apron pocket. From that day the poor 
ex-Lothario was conquered. She did as all 
great generals try to do: she cut off the sup- 
plies, and the besieged enemy had to surrender 
or starve. He surrendered. Lothario became 
a model husband; he played with his children, 
and paid visits with his wife. 


78 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


The party broke up a little as the guests 
sauntered through the lovely winter garden. 
Baron Jean and his wife had joined the rest of 
the family. Little by little various groups 
were formed; and, as often happened on such 
occasions, Maxime and Marca left the others, to 
take a side path. The young man, though he 
had no intention of falling in love with this 
“ little girl,” liked well enough to talk and 
laugh with her. As to Marca, like all very 
innocent and honest-minded girls, she saw the 
future unfold before her like a pretty love-story, 
ending with marriage bells. Maxime seemed 
placed near her by a kind Providence on pur- 
pose that she might love him; and, loving him, 
it was very natural that some day he should be 
her husband. 

“ What are you thinking about, little cousin ? ” 

Marca, usually talkative, like a merry child 
that she was, sometimes had fits of silence which 
said more than mere words: she had not yet 
acquired the society art of talking for the sake 
of talking. They were in the most ravishing 
nook of the conservatory; great bamboos, palm- 
trees with their wide leaves tangled one in the 
other, masked the view; while the tiny fountain, 
hidden in the foliage, murmured hard by. The 
voices were dying away; for Olga had invited 
her friends to take five o’clock tea, English fash- 
ion, in the drawing-room. 

“ I was thinking,” answered Marca, softly, 
“ that the garden of Eden must have looked like 
this.” 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


79 


“ Do I personate' Adam, my pretty Eve ? ” 
It was so very commonplace a remark that it 
meant nothing at all; but Marca nevertheless 
felt the hot blood rush up to the very roots of 
her hair. Maxime, who did not wish to have any- 
thing he said taken too much at heart, contin- 
ued, in a light and joking way: “But you will 
not do for Eve at all; you have dark, curly, re- 
bellious hair, whereas our painters, who, of 
course, are in the secret of the past, represent 
Eve as fair. Can you imagine why all ideas of 
innocence are associated with blue eyes and 
tow-colored hair ? If I Were a painter, and 
wanted to represent a perfect image of inno- 
cence, of ignorance of all naughty things, past, 
present, or to come, I should paint you as you 
stood there just now, with your eyes uplifted, 
thinking of that paradise which perhaps never 
existed. Do you know that your absolute and 
trustful innocence, your extreme frankness, are 
— -just terrible! ” 

“ Terrible ? ” 

“Yes, terrible; you seem to expect all, even 
poor fellows like myself, to be as good as you are. 
You go on with your gay fearlessness, taking it 
for granted that all things are simple and easy in 
this life, of which you have never seen but the 
gilded exterior; you never ask yourself what lies 
beneath the gilding.” 

“ I do not understand you; I am happy — that 
is all my secret. Just think of it; my story is 

wlrn.t. 


80 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


feel that I am protected by some magical power, 
and that I have but to let myself be led from 
one enchantment to another. I scarcely have 
time to form a wish; for all my desires, all my 
caprices even, are satisfied at once. I am For- 
tune’s child; everyone spoils me — and I so like 
to be spoiled! It is the very excess of happiness 
which gives me that sort of fearlessness which 
you have noticed in me, and which . . . dis- 

pleases you ? ” There was a little hesitation in 
the questioning voice, which said plainly, “ Tell 
me what you wish me to be.” 

Maxime was touched. It was really very charm- 
ing to be loved thus innocently and entirely. 
Marca w r as the first young girl whom he had ever 
known intimately, French life not giving much 
opportunity for such friendships; and he found 
in it a singular and unexpected charm. 

“ It does not displease me at all; quite the con- 
trary,” and taking both her hands, he pressed 
them to his lips. Maxime never could find him- 
self alone with a woman, young and pretty, 
without making love to her. Can one change 
one’s nature ? 

Marca turned quite pale, and turned to go 
toward the house. 

“Everyone is asking for you! ” The Baronne 
Amélie stood before them, eyeing them like cul- 
prits; she had witnessed the little scene of the 
hand-kissing, and her small eyes glowed fiercely. 
Marca, though she was terribly frightened, tried 
to say lightly: 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


81 


“ We were just going to join you all at the 
tea-table — I love tea! Will you take my arm, 
dear aunt ? ” 

“Thanks; I wish to speak to Maxime;” and 
the “dear aunt ” turned her back on the girl. 
Marca left the mother and son together, guessing 
that there would be a “ scene.” 

“ What is it, mother ? ” said Maxime, rather 
sulkily contemplating his irate parent. 

“It shall not be! Do you hear? — it shall not 
be! Your father is nursing I scarcely know 
what ridiculous and romantic scheme; but I will 
not allow it; this child of the gutter shall never 
sit at my table as my son’s wife — never! never! ” 

“Tush! — if she brings a few millions with 
her . . .” 

“Those millions will come to you and tq your 
sisters without heraid; — theybelongto you, they 
ought never to have been taken out of the 
family. Then, antipathies are not things to be 
reasoned with, and I hate this creature, who 
usurps the first place everywhere. I trust to live 
long enough to see her a lost wretch, like her 
mother; — to see her trampled down in the mud, 
whence she came ! ” 

“Softly, mother, softly! What has the poor 
child done to you? After all, if aunt Olga had 
not had this caprice, she would have had some 
other! And it is a pretty caprice, and gentle, 
and loving. All of which does not mean that I 
have any intention of marrying this nice girl. 
For the time being, I have but one care; but 
6 


82 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


that is a horribly unpleasant care: I must have 
some money.” 

“ What do you do with all the money that is 
given you ? ” 

“I spend it; and I want to spend twice, three 
times as much. It is ridiculous to keep me so 
short; a fellow in my position ought to have a 
separate establishment and not always live with 
‘papa and mamma.’ Oh, I have no ruinous 
plan in view; — I do not claim a palace; the 
least little house, the tiniest of cottages, would be 
all I should need. I know of one that would be 
just the thing ! ” 

“ Why, my boy, I should never see you at all 
if you did not live with us! ” and Amélie’s big 
cheeks were quite wet with maternal tears. 
But .Maxime only shrugged his shoulders; he 
was not touched in the least by this outburst of 
feeling. To tell the truth, he was very cross 
indeed, switching off the leaves with his cane as 
he walked. Amélie, wiping her eyes, pursued 
the subject in a different tone. 

“ If you need money, why not get Olga to 
give you some ? She has taken our fortune 
from us; the least she can do is to let us pick 
up the crumbs of the feast. As to your father, 
it is useless to ask him for more. I cannot even 
get him to pay my dress-maker.” 

While Amélie was giving this piece of ma- 
ternal advice to her son, Olga was listening 
rather wearily to Jean, who had asked for a lit- 
tle confidential talk while the others crowded 
about the samovar. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


83 


“Yes, my dear Olga, this is an anxious period 
for parents. Girls must be provided for, hus- 
bands must be found. It is a very anxious 
moment.” 

“ And expensive, too,” answered Olga, trying 
to fix the uneasy glance of the banker. 

She guessed what was coming, and she was 
philosophically resigned to the inevitable. She 
knew that there was talk of a possible marriage 
between Laure and a certain Monsieur des 
Granges; the youth was insignificant enough, 
but he was “ viscount,” and rich. So far, Laure 
had only seen his photograph, so that her maiden 
affections were as yet intact; but several busi- 
ness interviews had taken place between Jean 
and the lover’s relatives; these relatives found 
the girl’s fortune meagre, and there the matter 
rested. 

Olga allowed her brother-in-law to bewail his 
fate, and to slide into insinuations, and thence 
into allusions to the past, with a few hints as to 
the family rights. She smiled, finding the 
game rather amusing; Jean’s diplomacy always 
delighted her. Then, when she had had enough 
of her favorite pastime, she quietly announced 
her intention of doubling Laure’s dot , so that 
the girl might hold a million of francs in her 
dainty palm. 

Jean listened in silence; then he said softly: 

“You are very generous. I have no doubt 
that, thanks to you, this marriage may take 
place. Your sense of justice will doubtless 


84 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


induce you to do for Claire and Maxime what 
you are willing to do for Laure ? ” 

“ Perhaps; — but I promise nothing. As to 
Maxime, I have my particular views regarding 
him.” 

The young man, passing, caught these words. 

“ And what are they, may I ask, most beauti- 
ful of aunts ? ” His father, having obtained 
what he wanted, left the field open to his prom- 
ising heir. Maxime was very gallant with his 
aunt. In her double character of pretty woman 
and useful relative, she was a person to be culti- 
vated. The winning ways of this handsome 
fellow, whose nature she perfectly understood, 
pleased Olga. 

“ I keep my views to myself for the moment, 
as the idea of speaking seriously with a frivolous 
fellow like you is not to be entertained. Sit 
down and tell me some funny story of your 
naughty world; make me laugh — I need to rest 
after the severe passage at arms I have just had 
w*ith your father. He is not amusing, your 
father! oh, not at all amusing.” 

She was the confidante of all his follies, and 
she usually, by way of moral suasion, gave him 
a cheque that he might continue to amuse him- 
self. Maxime did not exactly understand this 
novel fashion of choosing a husband for her 
adopted daughter; but as it was his theory that 
the less one troubled oneself to understand 
people or events the better it was, he let his 
handsome aunt into all his secrets. 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


85 


Ivan Nariskine was secretly irritated by this 
conduct of Olga’s; it was the first time he had 
ever found his ideal of perfection at fault. He was 
incapable of treating any subject lightly. Max- 
ime did not seem to him what he seemed to the 
others — a pleasant fellow, gay and easy-tem- 
pered, a little wanting, perhaps, in solid prin- 
ciples. The worker despised this useless butter- 
fly, and deemed him unworthy the name of man. 

While he played with Zeé, Ivan lost no gest- 
ure of Olga’s. Maxime had thrown himself on a 
cushion at his aunt’s feet. Half-smothered 
laughs reached Ivan, and he let Zeé slip from 
his knee. The child, to whom Marca was offer- 
ing some bonbons , ran away, and Ivan ap- 
proached Olga just as she had slipped a crisp 
paper, that looked like a bank note, into Max- 
ime’s hand; he took it, as Zeé took the bonbons. 
Then he, like his father, having obtained what 
he wanted, sauntered away. Ivan sat down, 
looking very sombre. Olga’s laugh had sub- 
sided; she had grown silent and looked a little 
worn. 

“ It is a queer comedy, I assure you, Ivan,” 
she said at last, guessing his thoughts. “It is 
rather disgusting, I own — but funny, too, in its 
way.” 

“ Have you sworn to make all these parasites 
viler even than nature intended them to be ? 
Maxime takes your money, and spends it — I 
need not say how. You encourage his dissipa- 
tion ; — and yet you destine him to be almost 
your son.” 


86 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


“Bah! if Marca can love him, it shows that 
she is not capable of loving a nobler man. Be- 
sides, you are hard on Maxime; he is not a bad- 
hearted fellow.” 

“ It is you who are unjust to Marca. She is 
absolutely ignorant of life; to her Maxime seems 
a sort of a Prince Charming out of a fairy story. 
She does not see him as he is, and it is quite 
natural that she should not. You should warn 
her.” 

“ Take that upon yourself, my friend.” 

“I ? — This is mere mockery. I am nobody 
here — less than nobody; my very presence in 
your family circle is odious or ridiculous, I 
scarcely know which! ” 

“ Ivan! ” 

“ It is the bitter truth. Let me leave you, 
Olga; my very talent is losing its manliness; I 
feel tempted often, in this hot-house atmosphere, 
to let myself go, to do as the others do, — to care 
for my pleasures and my comforts, and for noth- 
ing else. I was born for something better, it 
seems to me. Just now, when I felt the soft 
cheek of that little child against my cheek, I 
saw, as in a sudden vision, another sort of life, 
different from ours; an ideal of tender love, un- 
like mere fevered passion, — love which dares 
show itself to all; a healthy, honest love, which 
would not fear the blessed monotony of every- 
day life, with its work, and rest, and low talks 
by the common hearth, and the patter of little 
feet for its home music. Listen, Olga; I am no 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


87 


longer the obscure painter you sought out years 
ago; I am beginning to be known, to earn 
money — a great deal of money. Give up your 
fortune to those people who are trying to tear it 
away from you scrap by scrap, and be my wife. 
Think of this seriously, Olga, I beseech you. Our 
secret cannot long remain a secret; too many eyes 
are upon us; and the position of avowed lover to 
a very rich woman is a position I could not long 
endure. I know myself; at the first jar I should 
break away violently, and we should never see 
each other again.” 

“ I thought we had discussed that question al- 
ready, and resolved it. Give up my millions for 
the honor of darning your socks ? Many thanks. 
I should no longer be myself ; and at my age one 
does not easily learn a new part.” 

She said all this lightly enough ; but she felt 
his eyes fixed on her ; he was studying her as he 
had never studied her before. The weariness 
she had felt was stamped upon her face ; for the 
time, she looked her age. Then suddenly he 
understood that the vision of happiness which 
had floated before his mind was a dream — noth- 
ing more. Olga could never be that wife, that 
mother of young ’ children, whose image had 
tempted him. Then quickly his eyes sought the 
child he had played with. The pretty little 
creature, weary with play, had nestled in Mar- 
ca’s arms. The two formed an exquisite group; 
he had never before noticed the sweet woman- 
liness which was visible through the careless 


88 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


gaiety of this young girl ; she suddenly seemed 
to him singularly pretty and lovable. All this 
scarcely lasted an instant ; but Olga had under- 
stood his thoughts as though he had put them 
into words. A glance at a mirror told her that 
she looked old. It was a moment of atrocious 
suffering ; she was not, however, a woman easily 
overcome. Her voice was no longer mocking, 
but tender and caressing, as she said: 

“You are quite right, Ivan ; our idle life is 
not fit for such as you; you need work, and hard 
work too. Shut yourself up in your studio ; 
you now begin to ‘ see ’ your picture, as you ex- 
press it; you have a great quantity of studies 
and sketches. Lock your door, and only open 
it a week hence, when I shall pay you a visit.” 

Ivan started to his feet. All the thoughts 
which Olga had read seemed to him now mon- 
strous and impossible; he forgot them, — and, 
indeed, they had but flitted across his mind. He 
was looking into Olga’s eyes; she was beautiful 
once more, and young; she loved him, and he 
read that love in the depths of those strange 
eyes. 

“ Y ou will come! — really — really ? ” 

“ Yes — my Ivan.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


“ T3UY something of me, too, my pretty young 

1) lady!” 

This cry followed Marca, as she passed through 
the flower-market of the Madeleine. The young 
girl flitted here and there, happy and busy; she 
was accompanied by her maid, and followed by 
a big footman, who almost disappeared behind 
the mass of flowers he carried. Marca was still 
buying, right and left, big bunches of roses, of 
lilies of the valley, of lilacs, — flowers cut and 
flowers in pots, — so that the maid, also, was 
forced to carry an armful. Marca had at last 
obtained permission to go and see her old school- 
mistress, who, as she well remembered, was pas- 
sionately fond of flowers. 

It was the very end of April ; a season when 
Paris is so really beautiful, full of joy and sun- 
shine. All the tall wjiite houses seemed very 
white, and threw gay sparkles from the number- 
less window-panes ; the young leaves glistened 
with the rain-drops, for between the fits of sun- 
shine fell fresh showers, lasting a few minutes 
only. The white and moving clouds, as they 
separated, showed great patches of deep blue, 
and there were whiffs of fresh wind which 
caused the trees to bend, and the women to hold 


90 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


down their rebellious skirts. In this pretty 
flower-market, spread at the feet of the big 
church, spring reigned supreme ; sweet odors 
of violets, of lilacs, of roses, filled the air. The 
market-women, who had shivered all winter, 
their feet on a chaufferette , their red hands 
wrapped in their aprons, now hovered around 
their flower-tents, selling as fast as they could, 
laughing familiarly with their customers. 

There was quite a crowd, going and coming ; 
even those who did not mean to buy went out 
of their way to pass down between the flower- 
stands and smell the sweet odors ; and few of 
these resisted the temptation of buying at least 
a bunch of violets for the worker at home. La- 
dies in pretty spring costumes cheapened the 
pots of flowers, as well as the poorest workwo- 
man; children, excited by the sunshine, pulled 
the mammas by the hand. All these people 
were laughing and talking, sauntering here and 
there, happy to think that the days of cold and 
frost were all over. 

But it was Marca who seemed most of all at 
home among these flowers. Her youth smiled 
at the spring-time; her fresh cheeks, her child 
eyes, caused many a passer-by to turn as he 
went, thinking that she, like the year, was near- 
ing her May-time. There is something in a 
young girl, when she is frankly and triumph- 
antly young, which causes one to stop and look, 
thinking, with sudden tenderness, of this life, 
just beginning; one is almost grateful to her for 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


91 


her bright unconsciousness, for the fearlessness 
with which she goes her way, sure beforehand 
that life will give her good gifts of love and 
happiness. One thinks it a crime to destroy 
such illusions; and gently one passes by, smiling 
with a half-sad smile. 

“At least,” said the woman, “she does not 
cheapen our flowers; she is so pretty she must 
bring good luck with her. She bought roses of 
me; my day will be a good one! ” 

However, Marca could not buy up the whole 
market ; besides, there suddenly came a shower, 
while the sun still shone brightly, causing the 
raindrops to glisten, many-colored, as they fell. 
The women, with little screams, tucked up their 
skirts and opened their umbrellas; and Marca, 
laughing, ran toward the waiting carriage, show- 
ing as she went her dainty feet and bit of red 
stocking. The footman, unalterably grave, 
placed the flowered mass as best he could in 
front of “Mademoiselle”; then the carriage 
rolled swiftly toward the exterior boulevards, 
splashing the pedestrians as it went. 

The coachman drew up his horses before a tall 
house, that seemed to have grown up there 
through some mistake. Close by was a tumble- 
down building, quite deserted, humbly awaiting 
the day of destruction. The proprietor of the 
land on which st<}od the hovel, being of a specu- 
lative turn of mind, waited patiently the inevita- 
ble rise of value; for this part of Paris, under 
the shade of Montmartre, was sure sooner or 


92 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


later to become very popular. Buildings were 
going on all around; the sidewalks were encum- 
bered with mortar and piles of stones. It was 
a disorderly corner of the town, with a look of 
sordid poverty seeking to assume an appearance 
of prosperity, which is perhaps the most un- 
pleasant of its many unpleasant aspects. In 
the midst of it all, the fine carriage stopped 
before the tall, bleak-looking house, and all the 
urchins of the neighborhood came to look at the 
rare spectacle; the stout coachman, protected by 
the umbrella of the solemn footman, seemed par- 
ticularly to excite their delight. 

Marca shivered slightly as she began to ascend 
the staircase. It was narrow, clean, highly 
waxed, filled with an odor peculiar to certain 
French staircases — an odor made up of many 
elements which arose from the wax, made their 
way from the different kitchens, mingled with 
the damp of the place, where no sun ever pene- 
trated; the narrow windows which lighted each 
flight were never opened, and no whiff of out- 
door air came to disperse the sickening smell. 
As Marca climbed the steep steps, she glanced 
through these windows, and saw that the im- 
mense irregular court which spread behind the 
tall house was lined with many buildings, nearly 
all of poor appearance. Quite far off, she saw 
the large windows of artists’ studios; and in a 
corner, against the bare lot next door, she saw 
with some surprise a tiny house, or little hôtel 
as they would call it in Paris, elegant enough,. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


93 


and shaded by trees, for a small garden was at- 
tached to it. While all the vulgar buildings 
around swarmed with inhabitants, this tiny 
dwelling was evidently empty — much out of 
x repair, even. 

The lodge-keeper had told Marca to go up five 
flights, so that she had plenty of time to observe 
all these details. The noise of the court scarcely 
reached her as she ascended; no nearer sound 
disturbed the cold respectability of the staircase. 
At each flight there were three doors, each with 
its narrow mat; the meagre bell-ropes seemed 
to tell of the decent poverty hidden behind each 
door. One guessed all the silent struggles of 
poor old maids, of retired officers, to “ make the 
two ends meet,” even while keeping up “ a cer- 
tain appearance.” All the humble sadnesses 
and sacrifices seemed to mingle with the stuffy 
cold of the stairway. 

Marca felt this influence; she had sprung from 
the carriage joyously, but at each step this joy- 
ousness fell. The flowers she held, and with 
which her maid was loaded, seemed to wilt in 
the uncongenial air. She was asking herself 
how it happened that her dear Madame Langlois 
should live on the fifth floor of such a house. 
She had always seen her teacher surrounded by 
every comfort; she well remembered the large, 
well-aired, well-warmed country-house, with its 
pretty drawing-rooms, where the pupils went 
when they chose, for they were treated like 
daughters; the comfortable furniture, the knick- 


94 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


knacks here and there, the books on the tables, 
the pictures on the walls, had made of this 
school something quite apart — a large home. 
In her note, Madame Langlois had spoken of 
reverses; but youth scarcely understands the 
words of ruin or sorrow, and Marca was quite 
unprepared for so terrible a change. She 
scarcely knew what attitude to assume, and hesi- 
tated some moments before ringing at the door. 
Julie, the maid, assumed a look of scorn, and 
tossed her head. 

Madame Langlois herself came to the door, 
and with a radiant smile she opened her arms to 
her old pupil; she was as completely at her ease 
as though all her life she had been her own ser- 
vant. 

“ It is Spring itself that has come to me! ” 

The voice at least was not changed, nor the 
gentle, dignified manners. Marca forgot her 
hesitation, and kissed her dear friend over and 
over again. 

“You may leave me, Julie,” she said gaily, 
“ and do not come back for me before five 
o’clock. Put all the flowers and the basket in 
the drawing-room — this way; is it not ? I may 
stay to lunch, may I not, dear Madame ? I pil- 
laged a pastrycook’s shop as well as the flower 
market; — and I may set the table myself, may 
I not?” 

Marca continued her light talk, but she took 
in at a glance the poverty of the place. The 
flowers heaped on the table covered it entirely; 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


95 


she saw about her the wreck of the old school 
furniture; the salon was visibly dining-room as 
well; a sideboard held a few dishes and glasses; 
a door opened on a tiny bed-room, and at the 
other end of the dark antechamber she caught 
a glimpse of a small kitchen; — that was all. 
Even in the drawing-room there were no pretty 
trifles, no shadow of luxury; the bare necessary 
articles — nothing beyond a single arm-chair 
near the window. Madame Langlois was now 
seated in it, and Marca noted with pain how 
changed she was, how pale, how worn. She 
knelt by her old friend, and laying her head 
caressingly against her, said : 

“Tell me, what is the meaning of all this? I 
have a right to know — since I love you! ” 

“ My poor child, why should I sadden you with 
my sorrows? I like to see you gay; your smile 
does me so much good ! ” 

“ But I am no longer a child. I am quite ca- 
pable of understanding you. I also have my 
moments of sadness.” 

“ Which leave no trace, at least,” said Madame 
Langlois, smiling at the bright young face. 

“Perhaps riot — it is so good to be happy; 
but happiness does not make one selfish. I 
should so like to give you a little of my glad- 
ness ! ” 

“Give me a little pity; that is all I ask. You 
are seventeen, and I am fifty-five; you are full 
of life, — I am dying, slowly but inevitably; I 
study the progress of the dreadful disease which 


96 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


is killing me with a sort of curiosity; I only wish it 
were more rapid. I am like some wounded forest 
creature; I hide myself to die. You are astonish- 
ed to find me in this poor place; in order to save 
. . . some one, I had to give a large sum, all 

I had put by — two hundred thousand francs. 
The sale of my furniture and trinkets produced 
enough to buy me a small annuity; I can even 
pay a doctor. I have a woman who comes every 
morning to clean the place, and every evening to 
cook my dinner; the remnants I eat cold for 
my lunch, which I prepare myself. So you see, 
Marca, that you may satisfy your fancy and lay 
the cloth presently? You wished to know; are 
you satisfied ? ” 

Marca remained quite silent for a few mo- 
ments. It was so terrible that she found no 
word of consolation, merely kissing her friend 
repeatedly. Without exactly knowing why, 
and in spite of her real sympathy, this story 
sounded like a discordant note in a superb har- 
mony; all about her was so radiant with happi- 
ness and prosperity that she longed to see happi- 
ness everywhere, so as to enjoy her own with a 
calm conscience. At last she said: 

“ But you have friends, relatives ; — surely 
they will not leave you thus alone ! ” 

w I had a son. I have lost him. My friends 
were acquaintances — nothing more. There 
are some friendships that need to be dressed in- 
silks and satins. My pupils, as you know, were 
mostly foreigners, and have gone here and there. 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


97 


Some of them still write to me, but that will not 
last ; other interests will absorb them. I still 
have you, my little Marca, because your child- 
hood was a desolate one, and you grew to love 
me, having no one else to love. But I know 
your godmother better than you do; had she 
allowed it, you would have come to see me long 
ago, I am sure. You have been permitted to 
visit me to-day, because one must yield a little 
to children's whims; but the permission will not 
be granted a second time. Mademoiselle de 
Schneefeld must forget the past, so as to give 
herself up entirely to the brilliant present.” 

“Mademoiselle de Schneefeld will never for- 
get those she loves ! ” cried Marca, with youth- 
ful enthusiasm. 

“ You will not forget me, dear child, I am 
sure of that; the baronne has no power over 
your heart — but she has over your actions. If 
sorrow were to overtake you, then you would 
come back to me — it would be quite natural ; 
and I am thus reducéd to hope never again to 
see you. . . . But we are foolish to mar my 

one bright day of happiness with dismal thoughts. 
I want to see you smile ; to treasure up a little 
sunshine for the cloudy future. Come, Miss, to 
work ; let us deck the room with all these beau- 
tiful flowers, and then think of our luncheon.” 

At seventeen, tears are quickly dried ; and a 
few minutes later Marca was chattering merrily 
as she arranged her flowers. She had a real tal- 
ent for such work. Soon there were no more 
7 


98 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


vases, so she took everything she could find that 
would hold water; a deep dish, in which she 
strewed a quantity of violets, throwing among 
them a few roses, the whole resting on a bed of 
light ferns, had immense success. Then came 
the preparations for lunch; the table looked 
very pretty, with its centre bouquet, its dainty 
linen and glass, remnants of past luxury, and the 
immense pâte Marca had brought. The young 
girl was not yet beyond the age when cakes and 
sweets delight one, and the small sideboard was 
loaded with varied desserts. As she found some 
fresh eggs in the kitchen, Marca amused herself 
with boiling them over the spirit-lamp, watch in 
hand. 

“ How happy you make me, dear child ! — how 
happy you make me ! ” repeated Madame Lang- 
lois, as she followed each rapid, graceful move- 
ment of her pupil. She found her grown and 
prettier, with a graceful and supple figure, which 
the dainty spring suit showed to advantage. 
The merest trifle the girl wore spoke of wealth 
— even though, according to French notions of 
what is suited to young ladies, her toilette was 
strictly simple. Madame Langlois, as she looked 
at her, remenibered all her fears for this child’s 
future — her useless efforts to make a learned 
scholar of the careless, happy-natured girl ; and 
now she was reassured. Marca seemed to be in- 
deed the daughter of the house, and she had no 
need of working to obtain a diploma. She 
caused the girl to tell her all about her daily life 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


99 


of busy idleness: the visits, the balls, the thea- 
tres, all of which this young worldling delighted 
in. She learned that Baronne Amélie could 
not bear her — why, Marca could not guess; 
perhaps because Claire was so fond of her — and 
Maxime too; yes, certainly Maxime was very 
kind indeed . . . but of him she only spoke 

when Madame Langlois asked direct questions 
about him, and each time she pronounced his 
name the tell-tale blood rushed up to the young 
face. In the midst of such talk the hours slipped 
rapidly by. . 

They were still chatting cosily when they 
heard a ring at the bell. 

“Do not be alarmed; it is no ceremony visit 
which we are about to receive. It is three 
o’clock — Pierre Dubois is coming to bring back 
a book and to ask for another. He is my last 
pupil, dear, — a mere workman, who interests 
me greatly. I must open the door.” 

“You ! what an idea ! ” and Marca ran to per- 
form the service. 

The sitting-room was in a direct line with the 
front door; the little place was full of sunshine, 
which came through the open window, and the 
soft spring air was loaded with the scent of the 
many flowers. Marca stood in the flood of light; 
her face, turned toward the entry, was in shadow, 
but the sunbeams made a sort of golden halo 
about her curly head, and gave relief to the out- 
line of her pretty, graceful person. 


100 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


The workman stopped an instant, abashed at 
so unexpected an apparition. 

“ Come in, Monsieur Pierre. You see, I know 
your name. Madame Langlois is quite prepared 
to give you the book.” 

The young man stammered a few words; he 
was terribly confused, and kept turning his cap 
between his fingers. He was about four-and- 
twenty, very decently dressed, with a look of in- 
telligence and decision about his strong-featured 
face. His eyes, full of wonder and admiration, 
were fixed on Marca; this amused the girl, 
and did not in the least embarrass her — he was 
but a workman. 

“ I must present my two pupils to each other. 
Mademoiselle Marca de Schneefeld, who this 
morning brought me a little joy mixed up with 
a cart-load of flowers, a big pasty, and number- 
less cakes, which she nibbles with evident pleas- 
ure: Monsieur Pierre Dubois, printer to one of 
the great Paris newspapers, where I trust that 
one of these days he may employ others to print 
his articles.” 

“ When that happens, I will read the news- 
paper for the first time,” said Marca, pleasantly. 

Pierre wanted to respond with something 
very fine for this little speech, but could find 
nothing save the merest commonplace words of 
thanks. Marca’s smile of amusement at his 
awkwardness made him lose all his presence of 
mind. Madame Langlois came to the rescue 
with her quiet gface. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


101 


“ Come, Pierre, have you brought me the last 
part of your composition ? Here is the beginning, 
corrected; you will find some remarks on the 
margin. Your great defect is a good one: you 
want to do too well; you lack simplicity. To 
write easily, one should never put on white kid 
gloves.” 

While Madame Langlois was talking with 
her “ last pupil,” questioning him on what he had 
read, and saying a few clear words about the 
book she had put aside for him, Marca amused 
herself in looking over the volume he had brought 
back — Bossuet. 

“ Why, that is the book I kept so long in my 
desk, do you remember, dear Madame ? I was not 
as good a pupil as Monsieur Pierre ; I did not 
care for the funeral orations — too much mourn- 
ing for me ! See, here is still the little red rib- 
bon which marked my place, and which was so 
rarely disturbed ! ” 

Pierre no longer listened to Madame Langlois; 
he was looking at the young girl. 

Before long he took his leave. He had 
reached the door, when he turned, with that ab- 
ruptness which so often characterizes timidity, 
and said rapidly: 

“ Madame, would you mind letting me keep 
the Bossuet a little longer ? It seems to me I 
could still study certain pages with profit.” He 
blushed painfully as he spoke. 

“ Certainly - — certainly.” 

Marca, rather astonished at this ardor for 


102 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


study, handed him the book, then thought no 
more of it. Madame Langlois, who knew human 
nature rather better, thought to herself that she 
was likely never again to see the “ Oraisons 
funèbres.” “ Poor fellow ! ” thought she. 

“You have a queer pupil, but he does you 
honor, at any rate,” said Marca, looking after 
the workman. “ How did you come to know of 
this rough diamond in need of polish ? ” 

“ It came about simply enough. He has a 
room just above. One day I was taken with a 
violent attack, and tried to call for help. I had 
just strength enough to drag myself to the door 
and open it; Pierre heard me, and found me 
fainting; he cared for me as a son might have 
done, and never since has he passed my door 
without asking whether he could be of use to 
me. We got to be great friends. I lent him 
books and made him talk about them. I found 
that he was as intelligent as noble-hearted. He 
had taught himself many things, but he had yet 
much to learn. I became his teacher, and the 
interest I feel in my pupil is my last joy. He is 
but a workman, Marca; but I doubt whether the 
fine gentlemen who dance with you are as true 
gentlemen as he is. You are quite right in say- 
ing that he does me honor.” 

The hour of departure came all too soon. 
Marca felt herself better, less frivolous,, for the 
time spent near her old friend, who bore sorrow 
with such simple dignity. She could not help 
asking herself how the Baronne Olga, were the 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


103 


positions reversed, would endure solitude, pov- 
erty, and a cruel illness. 

“ I shall come back — you will see, dear Mad- 
ame ! ” 

Madame Langlois smiled sadly. When the 
door closed behind the young girl, she let herself 
fall in her arm-chair, and looked at the flowers, 
which already drooped; she could not help say- 
ing to herself that it was hard indeed to remain 
all alone, waiting for death. 


CHAPTER IX. 


rpHE opening of' the Spring exhibition of 
I pictures of the salon , as it is called, is a 
great event for the novelty-loving Paris world. 
Painters are the lions of the day; the other arts 
are esteemed, certainly, but painting is the fash- 
ionable art above all others. It was no wonder, 
therefore, that on the “varnishing day” car- 
riages rolled unceasingly along the Champs 
Elysées, and deposited fine ladies, in pretty 
spring dresses, at the door of the Palais d’ln- 
dustrie. The lazy worldlings were all up betimes 
on that day. Hurrying by were more modest 
visitors: young men who wore an anxious look; 
artists who had already forgotten the thrill of 
joy which the official announcement of the ac- 
ceptance of their work had caused them, and 
now wondered with beating heart where the 
picture was placed — on the line or high up out 
of sight — a vital question. The motley crowd 
was swallowed by the huge building; the 
broad, dusty staircase was gay with its throng 
of men and women; nods and smiles and merry 
greetings were exchanged. These people were 
happy at finding themselves among the privi- 
leged beings who could see the salon before the 
public; the fact that the privilege was extended 
to many thousands did not trouble them. 

104 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


105 


Olga was among these, with all her family. 
She was dressed in black — a marvellously be- 
coming toilette, with jet cuirasse, that glittered, 
and that moulded her perfect figure; a bird-of- 
paradise relieved the black of her hat. She felt 
that she was particularly handsome; and so in- 
deed she was. She had always meant to be; for 
this was a day long waited for, often dreamed 
of — a day of triumph for her painter. She had 
questioned the members of the jury — saying 
nothing to Ivan on the subject, however — and 
these gentlemen, usually too much engrossed 
with admiration of their own works to think 
much of others, had owned that Mr. Nariskine’s 
picture had produced great effect on the com- 
mittee, and had been very well placed. Ivan 
had not accompanied her, but they were all to 
meet before his picture. 

Marca, who had never seen anything of the 
sort, felt a little dazzled when she found herself 
in the great square room, the first which one 
enters. The light fell crudely on all these pict- 
ures, which time had not toned down, and whose 
colors seemed ■ too fresh and too violent. An 
immense piece of decorative work, with doubtful 
architecture, and many ladies with or without 
draperies, in various attitudes, occupied the cen- 
tre place of honor; huge pictures, historical, alle- 
gorical — attempts at high art — were distributed 
on the walls; and French talent being ill at ease 
in high art, these conscientious efforts were, as 
a general thing, very emphatic, like false dec- 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


106 

lamation: full of noble attitudes and well bal- 
anced groups, and absolutely void of anything 
approaching genius. Marca, like most novices 
in matters of art, felt bound to look at all 
these and try to admire them; but she soon 
turned to less pretentious works, where the 
French school is really masterly: fresh, simple 
landscapes, with the shimmery silver-grey light 
of a moist climate; some good portraits; many 
carefully painted figure-pictures. Even at this 
early hour one guessed which among all these 
were destined to be successful. A military pict- 
ure in particular was much surrounded. It rep- 
resented, like all military pictures since 1870 , an 
episode of the invasion; it must have been quite 
at the beginning of the war, for it was in au- 
tumn. A country house, taken by the Prus- 
sians, was being attacked anew by the French; 
the pretty garden, still full of flowers, looked 
as though it had just been abandoned; it was 
filled with soldiers firing from behind the trees, 
crouching here and there, while more comrades 
rushed in through the breach in the stone wall; 
the house was already marked with many bullet- 
holes; from its barricaded windows constant 
firing was being kept up. The wounded and 
dead soldiers were well drawn and well grouped. 
The color was a little cold, and each accessory 
was painted with as much care as the principal 
figures; but the talent of the painter was unde- 
niable, and his success assured. In a corner of 
the picture the sentimental episode was not for- 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


107 


gotten; on a garden bench a book lay still 
opened, while a child’s toy was seen on the 
gravel hard by. A young soldier had dragged 
himself to the spot to die. 

Marca, keeping Claire with her, flitted here 
and there. Everything amused and interested 
her; she had never before seen anything of the 
kind, and she felt a vast respect for the authors 
of all these varied works. She preferred, how- 
ever, those pictures which told a story. Beside 
the military scene, there was a pretty picture 
representing a country wedding; it seemed to 
her that the bridegroom, who headed the pro- 
cession with his young wife, looked a little like 
Maxime; but she dared not draw Claire’s atten- 
tion to the fact; she only spoke of the pretty 
effect of the many-colored dresses between the 
trees. She would willingly have stayed a long 
time in this first salon , but Olga, who had some- 
thing more interesting in view, called to her 
impatiently, and led the way through an inter- 
minable series of rooms, each marked with a 
letter in alphabetical order. 

The party was too large to remain always 
together, and Marca soon discovered that Maxime 
had taken his sister’s place. 

“ You find this amusing, little cousin ?” 

“ Yes, indeed. But I think the crowd more 
amusing even than the pictures. One hears such 
funny bits of talk; people are so eager and so 
pleased or so furious; no one seems to think 
it necessary to hide his or her feelings. Then 


108 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


the critics, who pass along looking knowing, 
scribbling notes in pocket-books, are so severe! 
Nothing pleases them. It is great fun! ” 

Olga was getting more and more impatient. 
It seemed to her that the letter “ N ” would 
never be reached. She led the way faster and 
faster. Marca and Maxime came last of all. 
Amélie kept watch over them as best she could; 
but as she could not, being a French mother, 
leave her daughters unprotected, she could but 
make signs to Maxime, which signs produced but 
little results. She considered her sister-in-law 
as forgetting her most sacred duties, thus to 
leave Marca three yards off; under the care of a 
young man. Marca, quite unconscious of all 
this indignation, went her way, serenely happy. 

The two found themselves slopped by a crowd 
which had gathered around a picture. It was a 
portrait — that of a peasant woman seated 
in the shade of a tree, knitting. It had 
evidently been painted out-of-doors. The sub- 
ject was not a refined one; it was really a peas- 
ant face, tanned and wrinkled, with an expres- 
sion of satisfied repose. One felt that she had 
been an active, good and intelligent creature, 
that she had worked hard, and that her work 
had brought forth its fruits; perhaps a son, 
grown to manhood, now did her honor. 

“ Fine portrait, that — by whom ?” asked some 
one. 

“ A new fellow, it seems,” was the answer. 
“ He is not a Prix de Pome / one feels it. Rough 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


109 


painting — ntf prettiness there — but one will hear 
of the painter, or I am mistaken.” 

Remarks were made right and left; some 
attacked, others defended this bold attempt at 
something new in art. But Marca did not listen 
any more; she found herself close to a young 
man who was not looking at the picture. His 
eyes were fixed on the upturned face of a very 
young woman, who was saying, quite low: 

“You see, dear, it is a great success. I was 
sure it would be — you worked so hard.” 

“I was working for you, my little wife. We 
shall no longer be so very poor now. And the 
dear old mother — how glad she will be! To 
think that it is her portrait which is making me 
known ! ” 

They seemed to forget the crowd; they fan- 
cied themselves alone, being so happy one in an- 
other. Doubtless he thought her very pretty in 
spite of her poor black dress and her home-made 
bonnet. 

It must be happiness, thought Marca, to live 
thus one for the other; to find privations and 
hardships easy to bear, because one is not alone 
to bear them ; and together to triumph over evil 
fortune. She became very silent; it seemed to 
her that work was a holy and good thing; that 
life must be worth living, when one struggles 
with difficulties and is victorious in the end. 
Then she looked at Maxime, handsome, careless 
Maxime, who knew nothing of work, whose one 
aim seemed to be to kill time agreeably — to be 


110 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


gay and well-dressed, amiable to young ladies; 
who found it quite natural to spend what oth- 
ers earned. For the first time she asked herself 
what such a man would prove to be at forty; and 
then she almost wondered that she should love 
him as she did. . . . Maxime, noticing her 

sudden silence, asked the cause of it; and she 
described the little scene just witnessed. 

“Quite poetic and touching; — but why the 
deuce is virtue always so ill dressed ? ” 

Marca, who was in the habit of laughing at 
all Maxime’s small jokes and sayings, did not 
laugh at this one. She looked after the young 
couple now, almost lost in the crowd; and she 
said, with some emotion: 

“If I were a man, I should like to work, to 
to do something with this life which 
was not given us sim 

away.” 

“Tut, my pretty cousin, — what new mood is 
this? Not one surely for this sweet spring day. 
Keep your virtuous fits for November fogs, my 
dear Marca. I understand your insinuations full 
well; but I beg you to note that all men are not 
born painters; besides, I can hardly fancy moth- 
er sitting to me in a white linen cap, with coarse 
knitting in her hand.” 

“ It is really too easy to turn everything into 
ridicule, Maxime. There are other kinds of 
work to be done, and* I think no man should be 
exempt.” 

“You are like my father; you wish me to do 


ply to be idled 


struggle, 

certainly 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


Ill 


a clerk’s work. Why, I never could add up two 
lines without making a mistake ! But I am not 
such a lazy dog as you seem to think; I work in 
my way — I also struggle and long for victory ! 
At this present moment I am working very hard 
to make you smile — and — and I have succeed- 
ed. I have not lived in vain ! ” 

His mock heroic style did make her smile; but 
she remained more absorbed and silent than he 
liked to see her. 

They were at last in the room “ N.” In the 
centre of the principal panel Ivan Nariskine’s 
picture occupied the place of honor. The 
painter welcomed Olga and her party. He was 
completely happy. Every artist knows that 
feeling of anxiety lest the picture which looked 
well in the studio should not stand the glare of 
the public exhibition-room and the contact of 
other works; this test is to the painter what the 
foot-lights are to a play. One can never be 
sure of success beforehand. Ivan’s picture 
stood this trial admirably; there could no longer 
be any doubt. Olga had not been mistaken in 
her appreciation of her painter; his work was 
the greatest success of the exhibition. His for- 
tune and his reputation were now secured; 
Paris was proclaiming him a great painter. His 
one desire was to put his triumph at her feet; 
he almost forgot his usual prudence; he would 
have liked to proclaim aloud that he loved this 
woman, and was loved by her. 

The room was soon crowded. Olga held 


112 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


court here as though she had been at home. 
Since her return she had made the acquaintance 
of many distinguished persons — men, for the 
most part — and many other distinguished peo- 
ple wished to be presented to her. Her house 
was spoken of as a marvel of taste — and she 
had such a good cook ! It is true that she 
appropriated Mr. Nariskine rather too openly, 
but as yet this was merely whispered; she was 
so grandly unconscious of all evil talk ! Then 
she always appeared in public with an escort of 
young girls; the innocence of all these white 
dresses protected her own reputation. At any 
rate, that day Olga was queen. She received 
all the compliments showered upon her with a 
gracious condescension, smiling her own pecu- 
liar smile. She presented her painter to all 
these people, with great pride; she found that 
success became him. He was so happy that he 
ceased to be awkward; and a furtive glance now 
and then told her that he had never been more 
enamored. She no longer feared noise and pub- 
licity; her love had entered another phase, and 
required the accessories of satisfied vanity and 
public incense. In after times Olga remembered 
this day as the crowning day of her life. Many 
small pleasures added to her one great joy. 
She was the centre of all things, the one impor- 
tant person in view, Her husband’s family 
served as her escort — but that was all; one felt 
this in the cringing of her brother-in-law; he 
carried her parasol; he looked out the numbers 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


113 


in her catalogue; he was the veriest courtier 
of the — adventuress ! Amélie, fortunately for 
her, was too busy with her own affairs to suffer 
as much as she would have done otherwise, from 
the humbled position which was assigned to 
her. She was watching with eager eyes each 
group that entered. Evidently she was ex- 
pecting some one. 

Marca was no longer gay; and Maxime, find- 
ing this unpardonable in a young lady whom he 
honored with his attentions, had left her. From 
her place she could catch a glimpse of him, as, 
in the next room, he flirted outrageously with 
a yellow-haired actress known to all Paris. 

Marca, feeling a little desolate, kept thinking 
of the happy young couple so isolated by their 
love. As she glanced at Ivan’s picture, which 
was constantly surrounded by admirers, she 
could not help thinking that it was a pity he 
should not be able to share his triumph with a 
young wife, who, after weary years of waiting, 
would now doubly appreciate the joy of success. 
She was seated on the long bench in the centre 
of the room, and Laure was by her side. The 
two girls were not very intimate; besides a cer- 
tain difference of age and the natural impor- 
tance of a young lady who would doubtless 
soon marry, there was on Laure’s part some- 
thing of her mother’s antipathy for the intruder. 
However, youth seeks youth, and it sometimes 
happened that Laure talked confidentially to 
Marca. 


8 


114 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


“ Why on earth are you looking at that pic- 
ture with those widely opened eyes of yours? 
Are you in love with the painter ? ” 

“No,” said Marca, smiling quietly; the idea 
struck her as quite funny. 

“ Then look at me instead. Talk. Say any- 
thing you please — nonsense will do;, but I can- 
not remain stuck here without saying anything, 
as though I were waiting — expecting some one.” 

“How — waiting?” and Marca, suddenly 
shaken from her reverie, saw that her cousin 
was unusually moved; that her color came and 
went, that her hands nervously clutched each 
other. 

“It is true — 1 am waiting. You see, this 
salon is not only an exhibition of works of art; 
other goods are on show — marriageable girls, 
for instance. I always know when I am to be 
examined with a view to matrimony, though I 
am not often warned in so many words. Some- 
times it is at a party, sometimes at a shopping 
expedition, or at the opera; it little matters 
where. But when I am told to put on new 
gloves, or have my hair done over again, I al- 
ways know what it means. This has lasted 
three years. I begin to feel that it is time it 
ended. At first I did not mind; I knew it had to 
be; others had submitted, I was quite willing to 
submit also. I knew that marriage was a neces- 
sity, and that one had to make the best of it; 
that it was a question of money, of social posi- 
tion, of age. Only, in my case there are diffi- 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


115 


culties; we live very expensively — and people 
expect a larger dot than my father can, or will, 
give me. More than once a candidate has made 
pretty little speeches to me between two waltzes, 
as to the sympathy he felt for me; but this deli- 
cate feeling, being of a weakly constitution, did 
not resist the necessary revelations as to my 
fortune. My father has had a great deal of 
trouble in the affair; sometimes he is quite cross 
with me in consequence.” 

“How can you say so, Laure? Your father 
is very proud of you. He thinks you handsome; 
and so you are, dear ! ” 

Laure smiled disdainfully. Marca, who had 
always seen this young lady perfectly calm and 
mistress of her feelings, felt suddenly drawn to 
her cousin, and took her hand affectionately. 
But Laure did not notice the caress; she wanted 
a vent to her own feelings, and found it in her 
rapid, feverish talk; she did not at all crave 
Marca’s affection. 

“You thought I found the game an amusing - 
one, did you not ? I find it loathsome ! Really, 
a girl ought to toss to know which admirer she 
should marry; it would be more simple, and not 
lead to greater mistakes than our usual system. 
Do you think that after a five minutes’ interview 
I can tell whether a man is likely to make me 
happy during a lifetime? Does he carry the 
imprint of his virtues and vices, his character 
and his tastes, on his face — in the cut of his 
beard or the shape of his hands? When I say 


116 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


to mamma that I should like to know my future 
husband, to see him often, very often, before 
saying the final yes, she answers that all that is 
sentimental nonsense; that a young man cannot 
be admitted into our intimacy until he is intro- 
duced as a future husband; and once engaged 
no girl in our set can draw back. You see that 
my .idea of tossing a penny is a good idea. 
Presently we shall see mamma — she is very red 
to-day, is she not? — go to meet a party of 
friends; there will be much smiling, bowing, 
and scraping; the ladies will embrace, and say 
‘ dear ’ to each other; and in the midst of the 
group will be a young man whom I have never 
yet seen, and whom I shall, according to every 
probability, swear to love, honor and obey, just 
two months hence. My father is tired of parad- 
ing me about, and orders me to make up my 
mind — that is, to accept. Aunt Olga doubles 
my dot , and Monsieur des Granges, taking that 
under consideration, has consented to see wheth- 
er the cut of my face suits him.” 

“ But, Laure, you must rebel ! It is not pos- 
sible that you should allow yourself to be thus 
bartered away ! After all, it is not for one’s 
father that one should marry, but for oneself. 
You will be unhappy, my poor Laure ! ” 

“Words — nothing but words! Sentiment 
has nothing to do with the whole affair. A girl 
marries, as her brother becomes lawyer or doc- 
tor; it is her profession. Certainly I should pre- 
fer to choose my husband freely — as Aunt 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


117 


Olga says you may; and talk to my heart’s con- 
tent with nice young men — as you talk with 
Maxime,” and Laure shot a side glance at the 
young girl. “ But those are foreign notions, 
which my parents consider very shocking indeed. 
No, no, I am. reasonable; and if young des Granges 
is not absolutely idiotic or displeasing, 1 shall 
say ‘yes’ easily enough.” 

“ My poor Laure ! ” 

“ Bah ! I am a little cross to-day, but that will 
pass. I shall resign myself to my fate, as others 
have done before me. There are compensations; 
and often, after beginning some bitter tirade 
against the heartlessness of the world, I get to 
thinking about my wedding-dress, and forget to 
finish the tirade. Then I shall be called ‘ Mad- 
ame la Vicomtesse,’ ” and she laughed a little 
nervous laugh, not pleasant to hear. 

Just then the little comedy described before- 
hand by the young girl was actually taking 
place. Laure, withou tturning her head, saw the 
smiles and gestures, and remembering the part 
she was called upon to play, went on talking to 
Marca, who seemed by far the more agitated of 
the two. The young vicomte, a pale youth, 
very fair and insignificant looking, stood by his 
mother; he glanced toward the two girls, and 
murmured: 

“ Charming ! charming ! I adore blue.” 

Amélie looked at him with fury in her mater- 
nal eye. Her daughter was dressed in grey ; it 
was Marca who wore a blue suit. The mother 


118 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


of the ill-advised youth whispered something in 
his ear, and he continued, without a change of 
expression: 

“ Pretty idea — - blue bow on grey dress — 
charming ! Your daughter is a perfect' beauty, 
Madame.” 

Laure, who knew just what she had to do, 
rose quietly, taking her cousin’s arm, and went 
toward Mr. Nariskine’s picture, as though she 
wished to examine it with greater attention. It 
was before the picture that the formal presenta- 
tion took place. Laure behaved admirably; she 
was self-possessed, gentle, and modest. Marca 
looked at her with amazement, wondering 
whether she could really be the same girl who 
some minutes before had spoken such bitter and 
passionate words. Marca felt humiliated for 
her, and very sad. She quietly withdrew from 
the group, where she was in no way needed. 

“You are sad, Mademoiselle; I scarcely ever 
saw you, till now, without a smile on your lips 
— a smile first cousin to a laugh.” 

Nariskine, who had been watching her, had 
guessed that she felt a little strange and lost 
among all these people, engrossed with family 
affairs. 

Marca did not answer at once; she was follow- 
ing her own train of thoughts; and presently she 
said, quite abruptly: 

“ Did that girl tell you her story ? ” and she 
pointed to the picture. 

“ I think I guessed most of it. When one 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


119 


has suffered one understands the sufferings and 
humiliations of others.” 

“ That is why you guessed just now that I 
felt lonely and forgotten. Thank you; I shall 
never tease you again, and I shall try and be a 
better sitter. Do you know what I was think- 
ing about while examining your beautiful 
picture? I was wondering whether I might not 
have been like this girl if Marraine had not 
made a fine young lady of me; perhaps she suf- 
fered much dreadful hunger, and privations of 
all sorts, before consenting to earn her bread 
thus. It seemed to me that I understood all the 
poor child’s struggles and sufferings. You were 
more than an artist when you painted that 
picture, Mr. Nariskine, — you were also a poet; 
and that is why I so like your work.” 

“ I have received many compliments to-day, 
Mademoiselle, but none has touched me like 
this.” 

“Mine is not a compliment; it is my feeling, 
which I put into words, — that is all. I am glad 
if it makes up for my naughtiness; ” and with 
smiling frankness she gave him her hand. 

They were standing a little apart from the 
others, and Jean, who just then was seated near 
his sister-in-law, watched them curiously. 

“Well, Jean, you are satisfied at last, I hope; 
it seems to me that your paternal anxieties are 
likely to be quieted.” 

“Thanks to you, my dear Olga. Yes, I shall 
now be able to rest in peace for some years. 


120 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


Claire seems even younger than she is; we will 
have to think of Marca’s wedding before hers. 
How pretty she is to-day! — just look at her ! ” 
He chose the very moment when Marca, in her 
innocent frankness, put her hand in the paint- 
er’s. “Dear — dear! but one would say the 
child was attending to her own affairs. Has she 
taste for the fine arts ? ” 

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Olga, 
sharply, forgetting herself just one instant. 
Jean noted the start and the tone of voice. 
“Marca — think of Mr. Nariskine as a husband? 
Why, she spends her life in teasing him.” Olga, 
quite calm, smiled disdainfully. “ Moreover, he 
looks upon her as quite a child; he might almost 
be her father.” 

“ Rather, a young father, my dear Olga.” 
Jean had his idea, and did not let it go. “He 
is but a little over thirty, and Marca is seven- 
teen.” 

Olga’s lip quivered an instant; there is a 
revolting brutality in numbers; she had 'per- 
haps never before quite understood how much 
younger her lover was than herself. Jean con- 
tinued: “Artists are all the rage just now, and 
many rich girls, well-born too, consent to marry 
them. I assure you the idea deserves serious 
consideration; especially as artists are free from 
many of the . prejudices of our set, — and after 
all, you know Marca’s birth.” 

“ Marca is my adopted daughter; that suffices. 
You know very well that she is to marry, not Mr, 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


121 


Nariskine, but your son, Maxime.” She said 
these words with cold decision. 

“ Who can tell ? ” said Jean, using his softest 
voice. “ Amélie, who is by no means free from 
narrow prejudices, objects to the irregularity of 
the birth.” 

“ Does your wife wish me to lose all patience ? 
She has still a daughter on her hands; and 
Claire, who is not pretty, may need to find a 
million among her wedding fineries. Say to her 
that I do not ask for her consent — but that I 
buy it ! Maxime has debts, and no very good 
reputation ; he may consider himself very lucky 
to marry a pretty girl, rich, and who is, besides, 
willing to adore him — why, I cannot tell. I 
advise you to lecture your wife and bring her to 
her senses. I have said my say.” 

She rose. She had spoken with cynical 
harshness; every word had struck her brother- 
in-law like a whip-lash. But Jean kept smiling 
in spite of it all. There was more than mere 
anger against her sister-in-law in this sudden 
change of Olga’s; and Jean, who was curious of 
people’s secrets, thought that he was on the 
right scent this time. Until now Olga had 
always said that she did not mean her adopted 
daughter to marry too soon — in a few years 
she would think of it; and though she had 
always let it be understood that at the end of 
those years Maxime might perhaps be the chosen 
husband, she had never before said so. There 
was decidedly a change in Olga’s mood. 




CHAPTER X. 


HE end of the season that year was very 



_L brilliant. The young girls went to many 
fine balls, and at Baronne Olga’s house there 
was dancing every week. Marca enjoyed all 
this immensely; she had all the fresh energy of 
extreme youth, and, besides, hers was, a par- 
ticularly healthy and hearty nature, asking of 
life nothing but what life can give. Many 
troubling questions, the great “ why ” of hidden 
things, left her peacefully indifferent, so far. 
She danced and chatted and laughed with gay 
carelessness, as though a perpetual holiday 
stretched before her; there might be something 
beyond that holiday — that she knew full well 
— but it was in the dim distance, and she was 
too happy to pry into so remote a future. She 
was a great favorite in society; her partners 
found it pleasant to talk to a fresh, intelligent 
girl who knew how to say more than “ yes ” or 
“ no,” and who had not eternally a chaperon 
watching every gesture and look. 

Her godmother was well satisfied with Marca; 
she liked to hear her laugh, and the sight of her 
sparkling eyes and bright complexion was pleas- 
ant to her. Her girlish triumphs amused Olga. 
Had she been plain, awkward, born to be a wall- 
flower, Olga’s caprice would have been over long 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


123 


ago; but as it was, Marca’s youth and high spir- 
its were necessary to the comfort of the house- 
hold, and the baronne delighted in saying, loud 
enough to be heard by all her relatives, that the 
young girl was her adopted daughter and heir- 
ess to all she possessed. 

Naturally such a declaration produced its inev- 
itable fruits. Several proposals, more or less 
tempting, were made for Mademoiselle de 
Schneefeld’s hand. Olga conscientiously con- 
sulted Marca as to the answer these proposals 
should receive. 

“ Let me enjoy myself, Marraine ; there is 
plenty of time to think of such things.” 

“ Do you not wish to marry ? ” 

Marca would then blush, and smile, and finally 
run away, quite convinced that her godmother’s 
good-natured smile could mean but one thing, 
and that she could not think of offering her a 
husband other than Maxime. 

Since the varnishing day, Jean had made no 
further allusions to Marca’s pretended liking for 
the painter. There was a cessation of hostilities. 
The great subject of interest was Laure’s ap- 
proaching marriage. The day was not yet fixed; 
an uncle of the vicomte’s — rich of course — 
was very ill, and while he remained in so delicate 
a state of health his affectionate young relative 
could not think of celebrating his marriage. 
However, a bouquet or a bonbonnière was deliv- 
ered each morning at his beloved’s door, as a 
proof of the ardor of his flame and the good con- 
dition of his purse. 


124 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


But Olga had not forgotten Jean’s insinua- 
tions. She watched Ivan, and she watched 
Marca, too. Had she seen the faintest cause 
of alarm she would immediately have decided 
the girl’s marriage with Maxime. But Marca, 
whose open face showed every passing emotion, 
was so evidently enamoured of her handsome 
cousin that it was ridiculous to suppose that 
she had even thought of Mr. Nariskine as a pos- 
sible husband. Yet had Olga cared to look 
more deeply into the feelings of her adopted 
daughter she would have discovered that Marca’s 
love for her cousin had changed in character 
slightly ; she no longer admired blindly all he 
did and said, — she even lectured him at times, 
very gently. 

As to Ivan, he was less constantly by Olga’s 
side than he had been heretofore. His success 
had suddenly made him popular. The Paris 
world is always eager to claim new reputations 
as its own, and to make a hero of every new 
great man. Sometimes a freak of fashion 
suddenly makes of the great man of yesterday 
an unknown of to-morrow ; but this was not 
likely to be Ivan’s case. Invitations poured 
in upon him; and Olga, proud of his success, 
wished him to accept them. He had received 
a first medal, and there was talk of giving 
ing him the red ribbon. The pictures which for 
years had remained unnoticed in his studio were 
bought, one after another. The merest sketches 
attained fabulous prices ; art critics, pretending 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


125 


vast admiration for his original talent, rummaged 
among his drawings to find something as a Souve- 
nir which some years later, together with other 
souvenirs , might bring in a pretty penny at a 
sale in London or elsewhere. Ivan was aston- 
ished and pleased; his head was a little turned, 
perhaps, but certainly this sudden success was a 
phase of life singularly delightful, after the 
weary years of waiting, of dire poverty and bit- 
ter sadness. It seemed to him that so far he 
had lived in half obscurity, looking out upon the 
world as through a prison loophole, and that sud- 
denly he found himself out in the open country, 
flooded with sunshine. No wonder his head was 
a little turned. 

He made many acquaintances, and some 
friends, during those pretty months of May and 
June. He was received in more than one charm- 
ing artistic home. Such lovely homes as they 
were ! — full of the beautiful superfluities paint- 
ers love. Life was easy to most of these suc- 
cessful men, and they delighted in opening their 
houses to intimate friends. There was no 
stiffness; no formal invitations were given; but 
easy talk around a well-served table was an 
almost every-day occurrence, here or there. 

There was one of these charming houses 
where Ivan liked especially to go; it was the 
house of a painter, a foreigner like himself, 
whose young wife gave a great charm to the in- 
formal gatherings; two lovely children completed 
the family group. Ivan, after these pleasant 


126 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


evenings, would go back to his bachelor rooms 
a little sad and disheartened; the laugh of the 
children and the gentle talk of their mother 
lingered in his ears. She, like most happy 
wives, was an incorrigible matchmaker, and she 
could not understand why Ivan should not 
“marry and be comfortable,” as she expressed 
it. 

“ I am not fit to be married,” Ivan would 
answer. 

“ Nonsense ! — on the contrary, you would 
make a model husband. You see, I am selfish 
— I want you to have just such a home as ours; 
your wife is sure to be charming, and we should 
be great friends ! ” 

But he would shake his head, and she could 
get nothing further out of him. 

The picture Ivan had begun in the baronne’s 
greenhouse had remained untouched since the 
opening of the salon , and the painter was not a 
frequent visitor. At first, Olga found this nat- 
ural enough; she enjoyed her lover’s new popu- 
larity; she encouraged him to accept invitations 
and to make new friends. At last, however, she 
found that he obeyed her in this respect rather 
too willingly. The society of artists and poets, 
which he liked best, was a society which she did 
not frequent; she was curious about it, and 
asked him many questions, wanting to know 
whether the women he met were pretty, whether 
they were really ladies, or whether all his new 
friends were not in reality very “ bohemian ” in 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


127 


spite of silks and gilding and glittering outsides. 
Soon she found that his answers were evasive. 
Until now Ivan had been wont to show her his 
most intimate thoughts, to bare his heart before 
her. She felt that it was no longer so. 

Then she grew afraid. She had staked her 
all on this one throw. Ivan was necessary to 
her; he belonged to her, and must not escape. 
She did not yet acknowledge to herself that he 
was actually escaping from her; but what she 
saw clearly was that the life he led took him away 
from her immediate influence. For this she 
must find some remedy. 

The remedy proved to be very simple. Mid- 
summer was fast coming upon them. Olga de- 
termined to go at once to her country house, 
which had been enlarged and freshly furnished. 
She would have liked to shut herself up there 
alone with her painter; but that was not to be 
thought of, so she determined to fill the house 
with guests. Her brother-in-law and all his 
family, including the future husband, were to 
accompany her. The De Vignons were invited 
for August, and other friends for different 
periods. Ivan was easily persuaded to leave 
Paris; he had been idle long enough, and meant 
to work seriously at his large picture. The 
facility with which he consented to all her ar- 
rangements quieted Olga; there was evidently 
no great attraction for him. in town. 

At the beginning of July the country house 
received its numerous guests. The weather was 


128 


A .MERE CAPRICE. 


perfect; the garden and park were full of shade. 
Olga had left behind her all evidences of her 
wealth; simplicity was the order of the day: 
chintz-covered furniture, white curtains, — every- 
thing simple, fresh and gay. The ladies 1 dresses 
were to be strictly country-like: muslins and 
linens, plenty of dainty white, without laces or 
furbelows. Such were Olga’s orders; and they 
were obeyed. Ivan was grateful to her for this 
simplicity; he hated her wealth, even now that 
he was no longer a poor and shabby artist. 

The house was admirably situated on a hill- 
side, with the garden sloping down to the very 
edge of the Seine. Beyond the house the hill- 
side was more abrupt and thickly wooded; paths 
wound in and out among the fine old trees, 
leading up to the summit, from which the view 
was magnificent. The Seine, like a glittering 
silver ribbon, lay in the midst of a smiling coun- 
try, with many a bend and curve, pretty islands 
dotting its waters; the great city was seen afar, 
its domes and pinnacles rising from the light 
veil of mist which eternally rested on it; then 
hills, crowned by many a fort, and peaceful fields 
and tufts of trees, or wide-spreading woods; — 
all this formed a beautiful panorama, very gay 
and sunny, as though such things as war and 
ravages had never come to sadden the pretty 
environs of Paris. 

Ivan was never weary of admiring this view; 
he came and went, to see it now from this point, 
now from that. Then he sketched every small 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


129 


detail which struck his fancy: peasants in a 
field, cows grazing, a crooked tree, — nothing 
came amiss, and his album was soon quite full. 
Often he remained in the park, which was very 
large, and full of pretty nooks and corners — an 
ideal place for lovers in search of solitude. 

Marca one day suggested this idea rather 
maliciously to Laure, who played her part of 
fiancee very prettily indeed. But on this occa- 
sion, as the two girls happened to be alone, she 
concluded that it was useless to continue that 
little comedy. 

“ Much use I have for your ‘ poetic nooks.’ I 
wish it were all over; I wish I were married, so 
as not to have to think of it any more. I see 
no fun in this forced love-making; we are ex- 
pected to be lover-like, and of course we are too 
well brought up to disappoint such expectations. 
The affectionate relatives look at us with moist- 
ened eyes, and whisper, so that we may hear, . 
‘ Real turtledoves, are they not ? ’ ” 

“ Why do you marry Monsieur des Granges if 
you do not care for him ? ” 

“ How can I tell whether I care for him or 
not ? Mamma says I am sure to care for him 
when I am his wife. I hope so. He does not 
displease me — that is certainly something. He 
is amiable, and when he does not think it neces- 
sary to be sentimental he amuses me, rather. 
Bui when the others discreetly leave us five min- 
utes alone, in the moonlight for instance, why 
then it is insupportable; we have nothing to say 
9 


130 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


to each ofher — nothing! So you see we do 
not seek your ‘poetic nooks’; take possession 
of them if you choose, since you are sentiment- 
ally inclined. Only I warn you that Maxime is 
like me; he is not at all poetically minded.” 

“What do you mean? No — you shall not 
go. This is not the first insinuation of the kind 
which I have had to bear; I do not like insinua- 
tions. Be frank, and tell me what you mean.” 

Marca held her cousin firmly by the hand; she 
was determined to make her speak. 

“All I mean is this, since you wish to know: 
do not take Maxime’s light love-making for more 
than it is worth. I assure you that I am speak- 
ing to you as a friend. At first I disliked you; 
but my fortune is made, and I am indulgent to 
others.” 

“ Is it Maxime who commissioned you to say 
this, or your mother ? ” 

“ Neither one nor the other. It is a bit of 
personal advice — that is all. You fancy your- 
self in love with Maxime; if you are wise you 
will not let him see it too much, for, unless I am 
greatly mistaken, you are destined never to be 
his wife.” 

Thereupon Laure snatched away her hand, 
and ran down the winding path. Marca did not 
try to detain her; she remained quite still, lean- 
ing against a tree, seemingly absorbed in seeking- 
out the late violets which clustered about the foot 
of the tree, and which sent up their sweet per- 
fume in the evening air. There are moments in 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


131 


life when certain external things mingle strange- 
ly with the thoughts. The strong smell of the 
woods, made up of emanations from the earth, 
of the powerful summer verdure, of the many 
delicate flowers half-hidden in grass and moss, 
made her almost dizzy; she listened with curious 
intentness to the noise of the many birds seek- 
ing their night’s lodging, twittering and quar- 
relling and fluttering; and above all these sounds 
she heard distinctly the words, “ You are des- 
tined never to be his wife.” She could not keep 
them out of her mind. 

Then she recalled all her past life. She re- 
membered that she was nothing — nobody; that 
she had no right to the name she bore; that she 
had never even known her real name. She was 
Cinderella; a fairy had changed her rags into 
silks and laces; but a touch of the wand might 
once more change these and make them into rags 
again. The prince would not recognize her, 
and would let her go on her way, alone and sad. 
Tears ran down her cheeks unnoticed; for she 
knew during that moment that in spite of all his 
faults she loved Maxime, and could never love 
but him. She ' was very sorry that fate had 
made of her a Cinderella. * 

Evening was gently falling upon the earth; 
the birds were hushed into sleep; there was no 
sound save the faint rustle of leaves in the soft 
evening breeze. Soon, however, there was 
another sound: that of a man’s tread in the tiny 
path; but Marca did not hear it, so absorbed 


132 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


was she. Ivan was close by her side before she 
guessed his presence. 

“You here, Mademoiselle, alone — and sad?” 

He was looking at her in astonishment. He 
had just come in from a long walk, and his 
sketching materials were strapped on his back; 
his clothes were covered with dust; he was tired 
and unkempt. He was certainly not the fairy- 
tale prince of which all eighteen -year-old maid- 
ens dream. 

Marca looked at him, and half smiled through 
her tears. Ivan seemed to her quite old and 
ugly, but very good and kind to her — just 
made to be a confidant. 

“ I am not often sad, but each time that I 
happen to feel so it always seems to be your 
fate to console me; you know how to do so, for 
your life has not always been a happy one.” 

“Yours is not vague or causeless sadness this 
time; you have some real sorrow, Marca.” He 
forgot to say Mademoiselle. 

“ That is true,” she said, simply. 

He much wanted to ask her what that sorrow 
was; but he dared not. He felt a tender pity 
for this child, whose happiness depended on a 
caprice. He greatly blamed Olga for allowing 
her to think of Maxime as her future husband. 
He despised that young man, having a worker’s 
contempt for the gay idler; he only saw Max- 
ime’s faults and weaknesses, and he could not 
see any charm in his frivolous gaiety. Evidently 
it was on his account that Marca was sad, and 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


133 


he hated him at that moment for the tears he 
had caused. 

“ Poor child ! poor little girl ! ” and he took 
her hand, patting it with awkward paternal ten- 
derness. 

“Thank you, Mr. Nariskine, ” she said, half 
laughing; “you have cured me; I am no longer 
sad. Marraine must not guess that I have been 
crying; she would ask me the reason of these 
foôlish tears — and I could not tell her.” 

“ Could you not tell me ? ” 

“No — not yet, at any rate. It is not very 
serious, since I can laugh. A little fresh water, 
and there will be no trace left of my unusual fit 
of crying. I have almost forgotten it myself. 
Shall we go down together ? They will be won- 
dering what has become of me.” 

Ivan kept her hand in his, as though to help 
her down the narrow path. Marca felt comfort- 
ed; she seemed to have found a big brother, who 
was kind to her. Olga, from the house, saw 
them thus hand in hand, as they emerged from 
the wood. She abruptly left the window, and 
met Ivan just as he was going toward a small 
pavilion which he occupied. 

“ What were you and Marca doing together 
just now T ? ” 

“ I met her in the wood, and she was crying. 
I tried to console her; but I am awkward, and 
little apt to dry such tears — child’s tears they 
still are.” 

Olga looked him straight in the eyes; he was 


134 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


perfectly calm, and had evidently said the truth. 
She bit her lip, angry with herself for remember- 
ing Jean’s insinuations. She had had an in- 
stant’s absurd jealousy; this mortified her pride. 

“Be careful how you console young girls in 
their fancied sorrows, my dear Ivan. Others 
seeing you just now might have fancied you in 
love with Marca.” 


CHAPTER XL 


O LGA was too proudly conscious of her own 
strength not to despise the ordinary precau- 
tions of ordinary women. She had said to Ivan 
that his attentions to Marca might be looked 
upon as love-making, because the idea of such, 
love was simply preposterous. Ivan must be 
warned; that done, all would be right. The 
world is full of small-minded men and women; 
and superior beings are bound to remember this, 
and act accordingly. 

She had not seen the effect produced by her 
words, having abruptly left the artist. He went 
to his room, feeling ill at ease. In love with 
Marca? — with that little girl whom he had 
sought to console ? What an absurdity ! He sat 
down by the open window, seeking in the great 
silence of sleeping nature a little calm. He was 
doubtless over-fatigued; he had walked a great 
part of the day, and had not returned in time for 
dinner. He was feverish — so much so, indeed, 
that he could scarcely control his thoughts. But 
all he needed was rest. He remained seated by 
the window, and little by little a feeling of con- 
tentment stole over him. He almost forgot that 
he had meant to reflect on some puzzling ques- 
tion or other. The beauty of the summer night 
bewitched him. The window opened upon the 

135 


136 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


park; the trees climbed up the hillside, and yon- 
der, quite far off, their outline of deep shadow 
was sharply defined against the moonlit sky. A 
perfumed breeze stole along, making the branches 
shiver with a slight rustling noise, which came 
whispering musically to the young man’s ears. 
The house, with its many lights, was hidden from 
his view. He was quite alone, lost in the shadow 
of the night; and this absolute solitude seemed 
delightful to him. The fever gradually left him; 
pleasant, gentle thoughts came to him; he for- 
got Olga, the world, his art even; he was like a 
child, over-wearied, falling asleep to the sound 
of nature’s sweetest singing. It was a state of 
mind which was not sleep, and where the 
thoughts were yet half-lost in dreams. Then 
suddenly, without apparent reason, he thought 
of his friend’s happy young wife in her pretty 
home; he heard her very words: “Your wife 
will be charming, I know; we shall be great 
friends and cronies.” There arose before him, 
as in a vision, the picture of a charming interior; 
a young woman stood in the midst of the dainty 
luxuries of the drawing-room, receiving his 
friends; and when this young woman, thus seen 
in his dream-like vision, turned smiling toward 
him, he saw that it was Marca. 

He rose with a suppressed cry, and shook off 
violently the drowsiness which had come to him. 
This was dreadful ! He was false to himself, 
false to Olga — to this grand passion which had 
crowned his life, of which he had never even 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


137 


thought of being ashamed, so poetic and high 
had he deemed his love. And* now, because he 
had sat, a stranger, at some happy firesides, 
because some child’s caress had stirred in his 
heart feelings he had until then ignored, was he 
for such slight reason to prove a traitor to him- 
self and to this woman, who, with unreasoning 
generosity, had given her life into his care ? It 
was false, false ! He did not love Marca — she 
\Vas but a child, and he had always treated her 
as such. He had yielded to a feeling of passing 
weariness. He had allowed an instant’s envy to 
come into his heart — envy of those who could 
claim a woman’s love before the whole world, a 
womati called by their name, mother to their 
children; who were not forced to a life of lies, 
and clandestine meetings, and feigned indiffer- 
ence. His pride had suffered, because Olga was 
usually looked upon as his patroness, as a rich 
woman who had taken a poor painter by the 
hand and led him on to fortune and to fame. 
Many small wounds which his dignity had en- 
dured, and which he had almost forgotten, sud- 
denly bled anew. Certainly, his love for this 
woman remained now what it had always been; 
but, really, she looked upon him too much as 
her property, her creature. Ah, if she had con- 
sented to be his wife he would have remained 
ever loyal to his love; he never would have 
thought of comparing her with the younger 
women who clustered about her — though cer- 
tainly the difference of age must necessarily 
be great. 


188 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


He walked feverishly up and down his room; 
he was irritated and unhappy. He could not 
understand how it had come to pass that sud- 
denly, without any sufficient reason, he saw 
things in their real light. He knew that all 
these years he had been the victim of his own 
imagination, and that he had seen in Olga a 
supernatural creature, whereas she was but a 
woman, like all other women. He had lived too 
near her for the last few months to remain un- 
der the illusion so carefully maintained till then. 
He had seen her at all times, during her moments 
of fatigue, when her beauty fell from her like a 
mask; he had seen her with the people about 
her, and had at last understood that her gen- 
erosity was but indifference, her indulgence 
contempt. She played with all these puppets, 
because it was in her nature to play with some- 
thing. Had he not also been her toy ? He 
stopped, feeling faint and ill. 

Then he grew unjust toward Olga, doubting 
the sincerity of her passion. She had vowed 
that she had never loved but him, and he had 
believed this religiously; was it not a mere fable 
to soothe his pride ? What did he know of her 
past life ? He had remained apart, seeing her 
only when she was separated from her usual 
surroundings, and hearing but what she chose 
to tell him of her doings and sayings. Really, 
he had been too easy a dupe. He now knew 
life — or thought he did; and he despised him- 
self for his credulity. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


139 


Deep down, hidden under all these revolts and 
injustices, there was a simple truth which he did 
not or would not see; he preferred accusing the 
circumstances, Olga’s conduct, everything, rath- 
er than admit the simple fact that the violent 
passion he had thought eternal, of which he had 
made the romance and glory of his artist’s life, was 
a worn-out thing — a weight; that this poetic love, 
this frenzied passion, was turning out to be the 
veriest intrigue — a commonplace and vulgar 
adventure. 

This night was a dreadful one to Ivan. 
Twenty times he was on the point of rushing 
away, of writing some hurried lines pretending 
— no matter what. Twenty times he began a 
letter, and between the lines Olga would inevit- 
ably have read the unwritten words — “I love 
you no more ; ” but each time he tore the paper. 

The first glow of morning found him still ir- 
resolute. He threw himself on his bed and 
found a little troubled sleep. The first sound 
which he heard as he woke was the fresh voice 
of Marca, singing a pretty song to wake the lazy 
guests. She was picking flowers, which did not 
interrupt her pretty singing. It seemed to the 
weary man that the lovely season was personi- 
fied in this fresh young girl picking flowers for 
those who chose to take them from her. A mad 
desire to run to her and ask her to throw to him, 
with those flowers, a little happiness, took pos- 
session of him. But he remained hidden behind 
his curtains, watching her eagerly, finding her 


140 


A MERE CA PRICE. 


pretty and charming and young; — yes, her 
youth was her great charm ! Olga seemed to 
him at that moment terribly old and faded. 

But his thoughts were abruptly broken in up- 
on by a gay laugh. The song had ceased, and 
Marca was no longer alone among her flowers. 
Maxime was by her side. Then the wretched 
Ivan remembered that Marca loved this foolish 
fellow, and that soon they were to be married. 

Marca’s sorrow was quite forgotten — what- 
ever it had been ; she had perhaps fallen asleep 
between two sobs, and had risen to smile at the 
first sunbeam that kissed her pretty face. 

Olga encouraged her guests to dispose of their 
time as best they liked. An unusual liberty 
reigned supreme; the young people were not 
constantly watched and guarded, as young peo- 
ple according to French ideas always should be 
watched and guarded. The Baronne Amélie 
looked upon this state of things as highly rep- 
rehensible, and half killed herself trying to follow 
her daughters in their various pleasure excur- 
sions. But her scruples were ridiculed even by 
her husband; — were they not in the country, far 
from prying friends ? So Laure and Claire were 
carried away by that madcap Marca; they rode 
and walked and swam to their hearts’ content; 
Maxime and M. des Granges went everywhere 
with them. Amélie’s hatred of Marca grew 
stronger as the intimacy of her son with that 
young intruder increased day by day. What 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


141 


the stout lady most disapproved were the swim- 
ming parties, which were quite the rage, now 
that the weather was very warm. A pretty 
bath-house had been built close to the river’s 
edge, and a cluster of weeping-willows threw 
their trembling shade over the place. 

Here the whole family was assembled toward 
the end of that day which had begun so pain- 
fully for Ivan Nariskine. He sat a little apart, 
with Olga at his side. All the young people, in 
severely proper bathing costumes, were playing 
in the river, laughing, calling out, throwing 
glittering water-drops at each other. The Seine 
here was quite solitary, and a long island divided 
it into two channels. 

Ivan’s mood had changed once more. He was 
wearied, but quite calm again. He could not 
even understand the night’s revolts and injustice. 
It had been an ugly dream, and he had now 
awakened from it. It was false that he had 
ceased to love Olga. The subtle charm of this 
woman had taken him once more. She was that 
day gentle and feminine; the great heat of the 
afternoon made her a little languid; her fair 
hair rested lightly in a fuzzy halo about her fore- 
head; one tiny curl clung to the moist temple; 
he longed to cut that curl and keep it always. 
He said to himself that he had never loved her 
more entirely, more passionately. 

“You have worn yourself out with your long 
walks, Ivan. I allow no illness here, you know. 
] must watch over you for the future. Besides, 


142 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


you promised to work at our picture; that will 
keep you among us; you must make us sit, one 
after the other, in the garden — since out-of- 
door painting is the fashion just now. Then in 
the autumn the hot-house shall be changed into 
a regular studio. Our group must be the great 
picture of the next salon.” 

He said “ yes ” — assenting to everything, 
ready to be led once more by that pretty, long- 
fingered hand. He was so worn out that the 
slightest effort seemed too much for him. He 
was grateful to her for the gentle lowness of her 
voice, for the frequent pauses in her talk; she 
understood him so well ! A woman’s love 
causes her to find just the mood the loved one 
needs; — then surely she loved him; and he had 
doubted it! 

The soothing repose for which he was so 
grateful was suddenly broken in upon by a 
woman’s scream, followed by a terrified confu- 
sion. Olga and Ivan the next instant were at 
the water’s edge. One of the young girls was 
drowning, carried away by the current ; at first 
no one knew which it was ; then they discovered 
that it was Marca. Ivan was throwing off his 
coat to rush to the rescue, when Olga detained 
him, saying quietly : “ Maxime has nearly over- 
taken her — he will save the child.” 

Maxime was a powerful swimmer. He had 
been the first to notice Marca’s danger ; while 
playing in the water she had suddenly lost her 
presence of mind, and was being carried away 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


143 


by the current ; she was struggling awkwardly, 
and had already disappeared once. Maxime 
guessed the place where she would rise once 
more, swam toward it with eager haste, caught 
her just as she was sinking a second time, and 
brought her back to shore without much trouble. 

All this had taken but a few seconds. All 
the spectators, after the first screams of terror, 
had remained quite still, as though they were 
witnessing some acted drama. It was only when 
they saw Marca, who had fainted, lifted out of 
the water, that they seemed to realize what had 
happened. Ivan took the young girl in his 
arms, some one threw a cloak about her, and 
others rushed to the house to have a bed pre- 
pared. 

Marca’s fainting-fit did not last long. She 
presently opened her eyes, and fixed them on 
those of the artist ; she was greatly astonished 
to find herself in his arms ; but her head soon 
fell again on his shoulder. 

Ivan would have had the way indefinitely pro- 
longed. He scarcely felt the weight of the 
young girl ; he w'as no longer half benumbed, as 
he had been all through this warm hazy day ; 
his heart beat violently ; the look of two eyes, 
quickly closed again, had told him all he needed 
to know. His past life had in very truth faded 
away ; the old passion was a dead and cumbrous 
thing. He grew angry with himself for having 
an hour ago yielded to the tyranny of habit. 
Olga, who walked by his side, spoke to him, and 


144 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


he turned away abruptly, so as not to answer ; 
he was absorbed in the contemplation of the 
white face so near his. Olga stopped an instant, 
then concluded that she had been mistaken, that 
he had not heard her. Ivan was moved by the 
thought of Marca’s past danger — as they all 
were, indeed. No one could think, without a 
pang, of a girl dying while her laugh still 
echoed in the distance. 

Half an hour later Marca wanted to get up. 
There was nothing the matter with her ; it was 
absurd to pretend that she was ill ; she talked 
rapidly, and her eyes were*bright. 

“ It is strange — I scarcely suffered : a mo- 
ment’s strangling, and then it seemed as though 
I were fainting away quietly, with a great sing- 
ing in the ears. I was not even afraid ; I was 
so sure Maxime would save me ; when I screamed 
I heard his answering cry. And to think that 
if he had not reached me in time I should have 
died thus — with no further suffering — a pretty 
death, in full joy and happiness, without an ill- 
ness, with no preparatory sadness. Who knows, 
Maxime ? It may prove to be a cruel service 
that you have rendered me ; — but I am glad to 
live ; everything is bright and beautiful and 
sweet in life to me.” 

She kept the young man’s hand in hers. He 
would not be excluded from the room, and had 
entered it with the women ; it seemed his right. 
He listened with a smile, but he was greatly 
moved. He had saved Marca, and that seemed 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


145 


to make her his. His heart was tender that 
day ; he loved her, and loved himself in her. 
She soon fell quietly asleep, still holding his 
hand, just murmuring : 

“ I am so glad to have been saved by you, 
Maxime ! ” 

10 


CHAPTER XII. 


HE prospect of spending several months in 



_L the country had not been particularly at- 
tractive to Maxime. The constant company of 
white-robed maidens was not the sort of company 
to which he had been most accustomed. But 
at the first sign of revolt, Olga had given him a 
glance which cowed him into silence. His aunt 
Olga’s good graces were very useful to him. 
Then, in reality, this young fellow — who 
wished to pass as a Don Juan — w 7 as by no 
means of so violent a nature as he chose to 
fancy. He was not at all difficult to manage. 
He liked to go through life with the reputation 
of a fast man; whereas he was really a good- 
natured fellow, with vague notions of duty, but 
inclined to good rather than to evil, endowed 
with an admirable constitution, almost invaria- 
ble good temper, and an easy sort of philosophy 
which was apt always to find out the good 
points of a situation and to make the most of 


these. 


This sort of philosophy enabled him to escape 
the boredom he had dreaded. Life at the coun- 
try house w T as not disagreeable, even for a young 
man accustomed to the Paris boulevards. There 
was a constant coming and going of guests, 
plenty of excursions of every kind, and frequent 


146 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


147 


dancing in the evening. Horseback rides were 
all the rage — to Amélie’s horror, for, with the 
best will in the world, she could not hoist her- 
self on a horse’s back and follow her daughters 
in their wild gallops. Had not M. des Granges 
interfered, she would have forbidden the girls to 
join in such improper pleasures. Marca was a 
capital horsewoman; for Madame Langlois had 
been in the habit of sending her young ladies to 
thç forest of St. Germain, under the escort of a 
steady old riding-master. Somehow, in all their 
pleasure parties Maxime and Marca found 
themselves frequently side by side. Each day 
Maxime grew more contented with his lot in 
life. The society of a fresh young girl who 
showed all her feelings and thoughts with the 
freedom and innocence of extreme youth was 
not without charm; it is so rare in French soci- 
ety to be able thus to become intimate with a 
girl in one’s own station of life. 

Then Maxime, who had been used to look 
with contempt on people who spoke poetically 
of the charms of moonlit nights and bird songs, 
was quite astonished to find that the feelings in- 
spired by the country were not, as he elegantly 
expressed it, “ all bosh.” More than once he 
felt the softening influence of a summer night, 
of the murmuring of water gurgling under the 
drooping willows, of a beautiful sunset; and he 
felt them all the more when Marca was by his 
side, and expressed in a few simple words what 
he had vaguely felt. 


148 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


Still, he by no means acknowledged that he 
was falling in love with his pretty cousin. He 
thought it his right to enjoy the present, with- 
out troubling himself about the future. He 
rarely reflected much about his actions and their 
possible consequences; his favorite phrase was, 
“Things always turn out right in the end; ” and 
with this comfortable conviction he went on his 
way, rejoicing in the sunlight and the sweet 
perfumes and the merry laughter of this pleas- 
ant summer-time. 

But all this careless thoughtlessness changed, 
as by magic, during that moment of anguish 
when he had asked himself if he could save 
Marca. Her scream of terror had gone to his 
very heart; and as he brought huer to shore, 
fainting, that heart had beat as it never had 
done before, and he knew that she was more to 
him than all the world beside. All the foolish 
varnish he had so carefully spread over his na- 
ture crackled and disappeared, leaving it — what 
it ought to have remained always — an honest 
enough nature, not incapable of real feeling. 

The following day, Marca, a little weak still, 
rested in the shade of a fine tree — the only 
one that had been allowed to grow close to the 
house. It was very warm, and the birds were 
hushed in their leafy retreats; nothing disturbed 
the summer quiet, save the buzz of insects. 
Around the lounge on which Marca reclined 
were many other seats, empty save for the half- 
cut books or the forgotten strips of embroidery 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


149 


strewed here and there. The ladies were dress- 
ing for dinner. Maxime had remained by Mar- 
ca’s side, and was reading aloud some fragments 
of poetry. To tell the truth, he was reading 
these fragments very badly indeed. Marca took 
the book out of his hands, playfully saying: 
“ Do not read any more — talk to me, make me 
laugh a little.” 

“ That means ‘ My dear Maxime, you read 
abominably;’ it is quite true. It seems tome 
that the only result of my education has been 
to take from me the small amount of intelli- 
gence nature bestowed upon me.” 

“ You are unjust toward your teachers. What 
I mean is this: poetry frightens me; I am, I 
fear, a very commonplace sort of person; I take 
pleasure in hearing the music of verses, but the 
sentiments of the poets astonish more than they 
charm me. I do not understand the violence of 
their feelings; affection translated in their lan- 
guage becomes a poetic torment; love is a frenzy, 
a whirlwind, a torture, something supernatural 
and sublime. I find in myself no echo of these 
wild feelings.” 

“ Thank the gods ! ” exclaimed Maxime with 
comical fervor. 

“ But I fear that my ideal of life must be 
singularly prosaic.” 

“ I am curious to be made aware of your 
ideal. Explain yourself, little cousin ! ” 

“ It is rather difficult to put in words; ” and 
Marca blushed slightly. 


150 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


“Bah! Well, I will set you a good example, 
and give you my ideal of life. First of all, I 
should like a lot of money — a great lot ! ” 

“ I wonder if that could be expressed in 
poetry ? ” said Marca, laughing. 

“ All things are possible. But I shall not try, 
since you own to a certain preference for plain 
prose. I proceed: Lots of gold, and plenty of 
laughter and amusements of every kind.” 

Marca laughed a little ; then, after a pause, 
she said quite seriously : 

“ If I were a man, I should like to accomplish 
something great — to be looked up to ; oh, I 
should be so ambitious ! ” 

“ Alarming sentiments, those ; they almost re- 
quire the help of a lyre. And since nature 
kindly made a woman of you, are you still am- 
bitious ? ” 

“ Not for myself,” she said quickly ; then she 
suddenly stopped, blushing. “ Decidedly, it is 
too difficult to say ; let us speak of something 
else.” 

“ Let me help you out of your difficulty. You 
mean to say that you would be ambitious — ex- 
traordinarily ambitious — for your husband ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Then why not say so? All girls dream of 
the husband a kind providence means to bestow 
upon them. There, now; since I have cleared 
the way, let us have that terribly prosaic ideal 
which poets would despise. I am all ears.” 

“We may laugh at my ideal — but I am quite 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


151 


serious. I have thought deeply on the subject. 
I see before me a very simple, uneventful life. 
I shall never marry a man without feeling that 
I love him with my whole heart — entirely. I do 
not dream of loving a hero, or a marvel of any 
kind — but a man, honest and frank, loving and 
brave, with natural defects which time will cor- 
rect, and sterling qualities which need but to be 
cultivated.” 

By some dainty feminine gardener. Go 

on.” 

“ What I see in the future, above all,” Marca 
went on to say, so absorbed by her thoughts 
that she scarcely noticed Maxime’s small inter- 
ruptions, “ is the great happiness of bestowing 
happiness — of putting one’s own feelings in per- 
fect harmony with the feelings of the loved one ; 
of forgetting oneself in him, of making about 
him a sweet atmosphere of tenderness and abso- 
lute devotion ; and as reward, to hear him say : 
‘ My little wife has made life a sweet and holy 
thing to me,’ and thus to pass from year to year, 
hand in hand, proud of the love inspired and of 
the love felt, strengthened by that perfect union 
against all the inevitable sorrows and storms of 
life.” 

Her voice, which had trembled a little from 
the first, grew softer and lower, until it died 
away in a whisper, which Maxime bent his head 
to hear. He had taken her hand in his, and 
would not let it go ; he remained quite motion- 
less, as though listening for the far-off echo of 


152 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


the hushed voice. This silence did not trouble 
them ; they understood each other. During 
those few moments Maxime was transported far 
from all thoughts of self-interest ; he felt that 
he loved this young girl, who so innocently 
showed him her heart. He solemnly pledged 
himself to make her happy, and, for the first 
time, was troubled within himself, fearing that 
he could never be worthy of so much candor 
and such absolute tenderness. 

“ My little wife,” he whispered ; but Marca, 
suddenly alarmed and blushing, started, and 
would have risen. He forced her gently to re- 
sume her seat. “ My darling, you see as well as 
I do that we love each other, and are destined 
for each other ; that for once an arranged mar- 
riage becomes a love-match. We have pre- 
tended until now not to understand all the 
plotting that was going on around us ; but in 
spite of this pretence, we understood it all, and 
we made no sign, because we felt that it was 
the right and natural thing. Little by little we 
grew to see with the same eyes, and think the 
same thoughts. Why should you turn from me, 
dear Marca ? Why should you blush ? What 
harm is there in letting the whole world know 
that we love each other, and that the sooner we 
belong one to the other the happier we shall be ? 
I am no poet ; I do not know how to put in fine 
words what I feel for you. I can only say, my 
darling, I am happy in your love, proud of it, 
and my heart is full of tenderness and respect. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


153 


I fear but one thing — my unworthiness. I 
tremble before you, asking myself how I can 
ever dare to take you to my heart and call out 
to all who will hear me, 4 She is mine — she is my 
wife ! 5 ” 

44 Maxime ! ” . . . She could say no more ; 
but that was enough. He read in her upturned 
eyes all he wished to know. There was a short 
silence — that silence which all lovers know ; it 
se.emed to Marca that she heard her heart beat 
in unison with Maxime’s ; her hands trembled 
in his ; she was happy, simply and exquisitely 
happy. Presently Maxime went on, in a low 
tone : 

44 I shall always love the river, my little Marca, 
that river which seemed so cruel to you, and 
which threw you in my arms. Until then I 
knew vaguely that I cared for you, but only 
vaguely ; I was proud of what I called my 
liberty ; I was fool enough to say that there was 
no hurry, and I did not care to go deeply into 
my own feelings. I always thought of you as 
my future wife — some day or other — not too 
soon. In novels the marriage takes place in the 
last chapter. I can tell you all this now, because 
I laugh at my own foolishness ; ever since I 
saved you, I feel that you belong to me, and I 
ask but one thing : that I may become your 
husband as soon as possible. Are you willing 
to be my wife ? — are you really willing?” 

44 Yes, Maxime; I am willing.” She said it 
almost in a whisper. 


154 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


“Then, when we are married, we shall walk 
along the river bank, quite alone, hand in hand, 
and listen to the waves telling the story of how 
they made our happiness.” 

They had forgotten the whole outer world ; 
one thing alone was real — their love. The twi- 
light was gently falling upon them, soft as a 
marriage veil, when from the house a sharp voice 
called out “Maxime ! ” The young girl started, 
brought back to real life by that sharp, angry 
voice. She became quite pale, and looking her 
lover in the eyes she said rapidly ; 

“ But she will never consent. Why does 
your mother hate me ? What have I ever done 
to her ? ” 

Maxime shrugged his shoulders a little im- 
patiently. He knew full well that there would 
be a struggle, and he hated strife of every kind. 
It was very charming to make love to a pretty 
girl who adored him, and it was the duty of all 
those about him to let him make love in peace ; 
he did not understand why stones should be 
placed in his path ; his feet were delicate and 
dainty, and greatly dreaded all stones. He tried 
to treat the subject lightly. 

“ Bah ! all that will pass away. She is a 
little jealous of you on account of her daughters ; 
but when you become her daughter also, she 
will adopt you as such.” 

“Maxime, tell me — I must know,” said Mar- 
ca, trembling with excitement. “ She reproaches 
me with my birth. Who am I ? — what am I ? 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


155 


You must know; tell me, then. It is my right to 
know, too, — and no one has ever told me yet. I 
can no longer be treated as a child. Listen to 
me, Maxime. I love you; I have let you guess 
this too easily, perhaps, — but I did not know 
how to hide it. You are my all — my life. My 
heart has never beaten but for you, and can 
never beat for another. But listen ! I shall 
never, never be your wife, if I cannot enter your 
family proudly; if your parents do not receive 
me as the only son’s wife should be received. 
Tell me the truth, Maxime — I must know it. 
Sometimes there are dreadful secrets in families 
— secrets of shame, for which the innocent suffer 
as well as the guilty. My father . . . perhaps 

he committed some crime; perhaps my real name, 
which I do not even know, is a name to make 
one shudder. As to my mother — she was six- 
teen when she died; at sixteen one cannot do 
wrong; she was a mere child — my poor little 
mother! Answer me, Maxime; I must know 
the truth before I can say, ‘Take me — I am 
yours.’ ” 

“ My sweet one, be calm. I cannot bear to 
have you tremble so. All I can tell you is this: 
You are Baronne de Schneefeld’s adopted daugh- 
ter; that suffices. If to-day the name of Marca 
de Schneefeld is not legally yours, in a few weeks 
it shall be; he who is curious about the past 
may then come and question your husband. Let 
that suffice.” 

“ But it does not suffice, Maxime.” 


156 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


He closed her mouth with his hand, smiling 
at her excitement. Many voices were now call- 
ing them, and they were forced to enter the 
house, to join the family group, to talk and an- 
swer questions as though nothing extraordinary 
had happened. To Marca it seemed that she 
acted and spoke in a dream. 

Maxime was soon quite master of himself, and 
quickly took the tone of those about him, laugh- 
ing and joking as though nothing serious had 
passed between Marca and himself. On the 
whole, he 'was rather astonished when he remem- 
bered how sincerely moved he had béen — as- 
tonished and pleased; he had more respect for 
himself than he was wont to have, and most sin- 
cerely vowed that he would make Marca a good 
husband. Loyally he told his story to Olga, and 
waited for her approbation. She listened to all 
he had to say, smiling a little enigmatically; 
finally she said: 

“ It’s all for the best, my dear boy, since I de- 
cided when you wore round jackets that you 
should marry my goddaughter. You choose to 
make a little romance of this family arrange- 
ment; well and good, — that is your look-out, 
and Marca’s. Only, you had best calm your 
impetuous love a little, as T do not mean to let 
you marry yet awhile; and as I do not approve 
of long engagements, it is useless to inform all 
the world of your flame. I will speak to your 
father when I deem the moment favorable; then 
your mother has to be scolded into something 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


157 


like common-sense, for she hates my little Mar- 
ca, I scarcely know why. I take all that upon 
myself; you do not care to grapple with the dif- 
ficulties of life — so enjoy yourself — make love, 
moderately — and I will do the rest. You may 
tell Marca that her marriage is decided upon; 
she need not speak to me on the subject; 1 do 
not care to receive the love confidences of a 
bread-and-butter miss.” 

.Just then a letter was brought to Olga, which 
caused her to grow a shade paler. She recog- 
nized Ivan’s hand-writing. His place had been 
empty at the dinner-table; but his comings and 
goings were so irregular and eccentric that no 
one had noticed his absence. Some days he 
remained at home, working hard at the great 
picture; at other times he would start off early 
in the morning, sketch-book in hand, and return 
sometimes at night, sometimes two days later. 

Ivan’s note was very short; it said that he felt 
ill, and fearing a beginning of heart disease, 
hereditary in his family, he had taken the train 
for Paris, where he meant to consult a celebrated 
physician. According to the advice of this doc- 
tor, he would either return quietly to the chateau, 
or go where he should be sent. 

The tone of the note was quite natural, and it 
w 7 as evidently written so as to be shown to any- 
one. Olga handed it to her neighbor, and Ivan’s 
illness became the subject of conversation for a 
few minutes, until some other subject, more in- 
teresting to the majority of the guests, happened 


158 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


to be started. Ivan was by no means necessary 
to the happiness of these pleasure-seeking, 
laughter-loving people. 

But when she was alone in her room, Olga ex- 
amined the note with jealous care, and it seemed 
to her that the writing was even more irregular 
and nervous than usual. She thought over the 
events of the past few weeks, and her brow 
grew dark. The night was waning when she be- 
gan to. write to him — a passionate and violent 
letter, a letter which called for protestations of 
an equal passion, or no answer at all. She 
would wait before judging. 

Ivan, from his window, had seen the pretty 
love-scene under the big tree; he had watched 
each gesture, guessed each blush and glance. 
It had been to him an hour of horrible torture. 
He had dissected, with cruel care, each separate 
motive of this senseless love which had grown in 
him with such sudden violence ; he recognized 
the weariness of a worn-out passion, the longing 
after a more simple love, which he could ac- 
knowledge before all. He knew that little by 
little his mad passion for Olga had been replaced 
by an unreasoning aversion, as violent as the 
love it replaced. He felt very weak and wretch- 
edly small in the midst of these struggles. Ah, 
if Marca had loved him ! But she did not; she 
had never thought of him save as an ugly man, 
quite old in her eyes, to whom she could talk at 
her ease. He watched her every gesture; it was 
so natural that she should love the handsome 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


159 


young fellow who had saved her from death ! 
How could she, at seventeen, know that he was 
mediocre and shallow-natured ? Besides, he was 
perhaps unjust to Maxime; love might make of 
him another man; certainly he seemed very sin- 
cerely in love with Marca — and she adored him. 
Then why did he remain to look on at a happi- 
ness which tortured him ? He must go away; he 
must put a great distance between him and this 
fair child, who should never know how she had 
made him suffer. He was slow to move, how- 
ever, and he remained in the darkness of his 
room for hours before writing his note to Olga. 
Then, having given it into the care of a servant, 
he walked away heavily and wearily, and took 
the last train for Paris. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


HE weeks succeeded each other rapidly. 



Summer was waning; its last dusty and 
faded days were melting into autumn; and still 
Ivan did not return. Olga’s letter had remained 
unanswered. Still, after a rather long silence, 
she had received news of him. The Paris doc- 
tor had advised him to travel; he had followed 
this advice, choosing obscure nooks and corners, 
and wandering, according to his fancy, here and 
there. He worked hard, discovering in these 
unknown villages delicious “ bits ” and curious 
types. Everyone knows that the postal arrange- 
ments in out-of-the-way places are often defect- 
ive; the letter might easily have been lost. If 
Olga did not always find in her lover’s corre- 
spondence all she sought, she at least was greatly 
reassured by the easy and familiar tone which 
the letters, after the first few weeks, assumed; 
he spoke of his work, of the things he noticed 
in his long country tramps, of his hopes and 
ambitions. 

Gradually she felt reassured. Ivan’s illness 
was perhaps real, and physical suffering often 
affects the mind. A short absence was not to 
be regretted; he would come back to her, re- 
freshed, strengthened, and more than ever con- 
vinced that a love such as theirs was above all 


160 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


161 


ordinary changes and petty strife. She was 
resigned to wait. 

The chateau was filled with guests, during 
those early September days. The De Vignon 
family and other friends filled the place with 
their laughter and the sound of their high- 
pitched voices. They tried hard to persuade 
themselves that they adored country life, whereas 
their one desire was to reach the fashionable 
mpment of returning to town. While waiting 
for it they did their best to transplant Paris 
pleasures, Paris tittle-tattle, and Paris toilettes, 
into Olga’s country house. The days having 
grown short and the evenings cool, it was quite 
natural to have dancing and private theatricals 
until past midnight; these necessitated pretty 
dresses, in spite of Olga’s desire for simplicity. 
Then there was plenty of gossip in this minia- 
ture world. Mme. de Vignon’s eternal scenes 
of jealousy, the betrothal of Laure with young 
Des Granges, the unavowed but perfectly under- 
stood betrothal of Marca with handsome Max- 
ime, the anger of Baronne Amélie and the 
spider-webs of her lord, — all these things gave 
plenty of scope for gossip and even for slander. 
No; these fine people were not as much bored 
by country life as might have been expected. 

In the midst of all this noise and movement, 
Marca was not quite happy. She rarely found 
an opportunity of talking quietly and intimately 
with her lover; she seemed to know him less 
intimately than before their betrothal. Her 
11 


162 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


great love for him had brought its inevitable 
change; she was no longer a child, but a loving, 
gentle woman, capable of self-sacrifice, giving 
herself up entirely to this new and strange de- 
light, but at the same time requiring a return 
for her devotion. Maxime had remained what 
he had always been; he was by no means inca- 
pable of momentary tenderness, real and sin- 
cere; only he did not require to have these 
occasions multiplied; life had been given him, 
according to his theory, to eat, drink, and be 
merry — especially the latter; and he found that 
Marca had suddenly grown terribly serious and 
sentimental. He discovered that it was his duty 
to be gajlant and full of attentions to the femi- 
nine portion of his aunt’s guests — that is, the 
younger among these; and he performed that 
duty with scrupulous care. 

Marca, with instinctive pride, drew back, and 
sought to hide her suffering. There was no one 
to whom she could confide her thoughts; and it 
was little by little, after many attempts to con- 
vince herself of the contrary, that she at last 
understood that all Maxime asked of her was in 
the first place uninterrupted gaiety, and in the 
second a quiet, comfortable, easy sort of affec- 
tion, to which he might without much effort re- 
spond. As she was yet too young to hide her 
feelings, Maxime came to the conclusion that 
she was decidedly romantic; and since it was 
arranged that fhe marriage was not to take place 
for some time yet, his love-making became very 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


163 


intermittent, and he filled up the intervals with 
half-laughing, half-serious court, first to one, 
then to the other, of the guests. Mme. de Vig- 
non, in spite of her thirty odd years, accepted 
his gallantries, partly because they amused her, 
partly because her husband showed on all occa- 
sions a great partiality for Marca. 

One evening charades were in progress in the 
drawing-room. Marca had refused to join the 
improvised troupe, and sat apart. She was quite 
pale and sad; she seemed to have lost ‘her youth 
— her good looks especially, for Marca’s beauty 
was a thing made of sparkle and color and ex- 
pression more than of perfection of feature. 

“ What is the matter, dear ? ” said Claire, ca- 
ressingly. She was very fond of Marca, and 
delighted at the idea of having her as sister-in- 
law — especially delighted at having been chosen 
as confidante in this love affair. 

“I should like to have a good cry.” 

“Why?” 

“ Do you know what Marraine just said to me 
as she passed ? ” 

“ It could not have been anything very terri- 
ble, for as she spoke she smiled.” 

“I fear her smile, Claire; I fear it more than 
her anger. She said: ‘ You have a part to play ; 
your duty is to be young and pretty, to laugh 
and make others gay; try and play that part 
better than you have done for some time past. 
I am not pleased with you. I wish for no 
wounded soul, no plaintive maiden, in my house. 


164 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


Try and understand, and act accordingly.’ I 
could not help saying, ‘ Marraine, I am not very 
happy; how can I laugh and be gay?’ But she 
pretended not to hear, and went her way smil- 
ing, just glancing at me with cold irony. Does 
she not love me? A mother would have lis- 
tened, would have answered.” 

“ I suppose it is her way,” said Claire, seeking 
for something consoling and not finding it. 
“ After all, if she did not care for you she would 
scarcely give you so many fine things — and let 
you marry Maxime ! ” 

But Marca said no more. She was listening 
intently to the sound of voices behind the im- 
provised theatre certain; she distinguished the 
mellow accents of Maxime mingling with the 
shrill soprano of Madame de Vignon. Certainly 
Marca was not jealous of this coquette; but she 
could not understand what pleasure Maxime 
could find in this constant and ridiculous flirta- 
tion. As she listened, she began to wonder 
whether she had not been foolish to place her 
ideal of life too high; whether, if she were to 
lower herself to Maxime’s level, he would not 
love her better. Since eternal laughter was 
necessary to his happiness, why, she would try 
to laugh with him. She knew full well that he 
had real affection for her, that he cared for 
no one in the world as he cared for her ; on 
the rare occasions when they found themselves 
alone, he was really her lover; — why should she 
ask for more, and seek to elevate a nature that 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


165 


by no means desired to be elevated? With 
every young and honest-hearted girl a first love 
awakens a desire for great and heroic things; 
she tries to see in the man she loves a superior 
being, whom she can worship, to whom she looks 
up. When she understands that, in order to 
keep the love of this man, she must seek, instead 
of ennobling her own nature, to debase it, the 
suffering which this conviction brings with it is 
acyite. 

“ It would do me good to cry,” again mur- 
mured Marca. 

“ Do nothing of the sort, my darling; aunt 
Olga is coming back toward us. Just look ! 
Mr. Nariskine is by her side, — the great man 
has deigned to return to us inferior beings. He 
is uglier than ever, now that he is sunburnt. I 
hate geniuses — don’t you ? They are too much 
absorbed by the contemplation of their own 
superiority to think of small-natured people ! 
At any rate, aunt Olga is not of my opinion; 
she is beaming as she does not beam even for 
dukes and princes. What it is to be a genius ! 
I suppose she does not notice how awkward he 
is; he never will know how to enter a drawing- 
room ! ” 

“I think Mr. Nariskine very interesting look- 
ing, very manly — and that is more important 
in a man than mere good looks.” 

“ Dear me ! I thought you had a weakness 
for handsome curly-headed young fellows !” 

Marca blushed a little by way of an answer; 


166 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


in her heart she wished handsome Maxime had a 
few of the ugly painter’s qualities. 

Just then the curtain rose, and the charade 
began. There were but two actors on the 
stage — Madame de Vignon and Maxime; she 
personated a young widow, he a gay Lothario, 
who had followed the lady, taking her for what 
she was not — which was not to be wondered at, 
thanks to Madame de Vignon’s manner of act- 
ing; the whole ended by a declaration and a 
request for the gay widow’s hand. They did 
not play very badly, on the whole, but the scene 
had been hastily arranged, and was dreadfully 
wanting in wit and in general interest. The 
actors seemed to enjoy themselves, however, if 
the audience did not, and gave full scope- to their 
coquetry and their desire to attract attention. 

The salon was nearly full, and all the ladies 
revenged themselves for their long waiting by 
ill-natured remarks about the actors, exchanged 
in a low voice, even while, with their gloved 
hands, they gently applauded. 

“ Just look at that poor De Vignon, my dear ! 
A true philosopher. What a well-trained hus- 
band ! ” 

“ Look rather at the pretty affianced bride ! 
— it seems she is already jealous; what will it 
be later ? If she takes such things to heart 
she will not have two months of happiness. I 
wonder Olga does not understand this, if she 
really cares for Marca. Why does she want 
this marriage to take place ? ” 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


167 


“Why? You are naive, my dear. Simply so 
as to humble all the family. The adventuress 
is revenging herself ! ” 

Several of the men came and went among the 
groups, trying their best to seem interested in the 
charade, which the inexperienced actors dragged 
to an unconscionable length, not finding the 
ending they sought; smothered conversations 
went on here and there. Ivan overheard the 
talk about Marca; Olga had left him, and from 
where he stood he could study the young girl’s 
face. 

He had come back thinking himself quite 
cured, and resolved to act as any honorable man 
should act in such a case. Absence helping, he 
had convinced himself that his love for Marca 
was but a passing fancy. He wished to study 
his own feelings with regard to Olga before 
breaking forever the chain which bound him to 
her. If he grew quite convinced that his love 
was really dead, then he would not hesitate; he 
would go away, very far, and they should meet 
no more. Only before taking this decisive step 
he wished to be quite sure. Should he find 
Marca as he had left her, happy in her love for 
Maxime, she should never guess that in a 
moment of madness he also had loved her. 

The women’s chatter fell upon his ears, start- 
ling him out of his quietude; and he looked 
toward Marca. While the two would-be actors 
were performing their last sentimentalisms, which 
the audience, a little roused by the feeling that 


168 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


the end could not be far off, approved by mur- 
murs of “ Charming ! — quite delightful ! — what 
cleverness ! — it could not have been better 
played at the Français ! ” his anger against 
Maxime, against Olga, who permitted this mar- 
riage, grew stronger and stronger. He under- 
stood that his cure was not a real cure, but that 
he loved this little girl, and that he longed to 
take her to his arms and call her “wife.” His 
love was mingled with great and tender pity. 
He had but to study that young face to guess 
all her efforts to keep back the tears; he saw 
that she had 'grown thinner and paler, that the 
first freshness of her youth had left her. 

All hesitation was now at an end; he would do 
all in his power to protect this helpless girl. 
She still fancied herself in love with her hand- 
some cousin, that was evident; but a love which 
is not built on mutual esteem is a love doomed 
to inevitable death. He would open her eyes; 
he would try to supplant his unworthy rival, 
and that without the slightest scruple. He 
would do more; he who during all these years 
had suffered cruelly from the dissimulation 
which his false position had made necessary, 
would become really a hypocrite; he would act 
a part with Olga, so as to have every opportu- 
nity of approaching Marca — and that also with- 
out the slightest scruple. 

These thoughts had passed rapidly through the 
painter’s mind. He had quite regained his self- 
possession before the inevitable applause had 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


169 


died away. Then there came a general moving 
of chairs and rustling of skirts. Marca was do- 
ing her best to obey her godmother; she went 
from group to group, trying to smile and chat- 
ter. The painter was standing by Olga when 
the young girl welcomed him back with a hearty 
hand-shake and a few pleasant words. Olga, 
who was watching the two, was satisfied; noth- 
ing could have been more unaffected, more cor- 
dial, and less lover-like, than this meeting. 

The evening passed away without other inci- 
dent. Maxime, to whom his aunt said a few 
words as she passed, seemed quite astonished 
that his lover-like ardor should be questioned; 
he had been told not to pay his court too open- 
ly, and as he was by nature obedient, he had 
acted accordingly. But since the reverse was not 
expected of him, he kept by Marca’s side man- 
fully. The young girl, who asked for nothing 
more, grew happy and bright again. Thus, all 
things seemed in perfect harmony at the very 
moment when, for the first time, that harmony 
was seriously menaced. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


LGA was ill at ease, not to say out of tem- 



per. She had sent all her guests off on 
some excursion, and was alone. She stood by 
the window, looking out upon the dull grey sky, 
and upon the trees, many of which had already 
lost their leaves. She listened to the moaning 
of the wind among the yellow shrubs. 

She was saying to herself that life is but one 
long deception, even when one has triumphed 
over one’s adversaries, when one has fortune and 
beauty. She would have liked at that moment 
to find herself in some far-away land, among 
strangers. Faces too well known wearied her. 
She had chosen to bend all wills to hers — and 
she had done so: really, it was too easy a thing; 
with money — plenty of money — one is all- 
powerful. 

She remembered the day when, her husband 
by her side, she had stood at this same window 
looking out upon the lawn, where a child of four 
years tumbled about and played with little peas- 
ants — seeming herself a peasant. She remem- 
bered her hesitation, scarcely knowing whether 
it would be wise to take this child out of her 
natural sphere or not; whether or not she would 
make of her a rich heiress, an instrument of 
vengeance to be used in due season, to humble 


170 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


171 


and crush those who had called her an adventur- 
ess. It seemed to her that she still heard the 
words of Baron Max — “ It would perhaps be 
better than making of her an intruder ” — words 
which had put an end to her indecision. 

She had fancied that when she had seen 
Marca grown into a pretty and lively girl she 
should feel some affection for her. She wished 
to feel this affection. But it had .not come to 
her. She had already spent some months in 
examining this new toy, and the toy no longer 
amused her. Little by little she had grown 
quite indifferent to the girl. Now the in- 
difference was becoming something else. She 
wanted to get rid of Marca — she was tired of 
seeing her. Several causes had contributed to 
bring about this state of feeling. In spite of 
some momentary paleness and want of sparkle, 
Marca was developing into beauty ; and doubt- 
less she would in a few years be prettier still. In 
her all was full of promise. Olga, who for years 
had seemed to defy time, was suddenly growing 
old. She had discovered some white threads in her 
hair, and signs of fatigue were sometimes visible 
on her face. Marca’s extreme youth irritated 
her. 

She had grown weary also of this noisy, brill- 
iant life she had led for months past. It should 
cease. Leaning her forehead against the win- 
dow-pane, jke dreamed of another sort of life. 
Soon she would cause the two marriages to take 
place — that of Laure and that of Marca. She 


172 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


meant to be generous, very generous ; what did 
she care about money? Then she would go 
away, very far, to be alone with Ivan. She 
closed her eyes, the better to see the paradise 
she dreamed of ; she almost felt the warmth of 
the southern sun ; she almost smelt the delicious 
odor of the orange and citron groves ; she 
almost saw the deep blue of sky and sea, and 
the greyish hue of the olive trees. She had been 
foolish to bring her lover into this frivolous 
French world, where he never could feel at 
home, where he was no longer quite himself. 

Then she suddenly remembered a book she 
had read long ago, which had struck her as a 
singularly living picture, a cruelly realistic study. 
It was the story of two lovers, whose love had 
worn itself out, yet who did not know how to 
confess it ; they were constantly falling back 
into their passion, which then almost immedi- 
ately wearied and irritated them. This little 
story, called “Adolphe,” which she had about 
forgotten, now came back to her with great 
vividness : why ? Then the thought struck her 
that this man — who, through all his fluctuations 
tried to act as a man of honor, who found him- 
self in a false position, from which he did not 
know how to free himself — spoke and looked 
and acted as, for some time past, Ivan had acted, 
looked, and spoken. 

She started nervously. No ; this monstrous 
thing was false — must be false ! She loved him 
still so passionately — with a love which must 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


173 


surely awaken an answering echo in his heart ! 
He had so worshipped her ; she had been more 
to him than a beloved woman merely — she had 
been muse and goddess. As in a flash she per- 
ceived that during these past months the god- 
dess had been seen too familiarly, and, having 
stepped from her pedestal, had become indeed a 
mere woman. 

More than ever she was determined to tear 
Iv^n from this foolish world, where he felt ill at 
ease. Once far away, alone with her, his old 
adoration would come back to him. 

“ My dear Olga, may I request a moment’s 
interview ? ” 

In a second she had regained all her presence 
of mind, and said to her brother-in-law: “I 
thought you had gone out with the others, 
Jean ! ” 

“ As I was preparing to mount I received a 
a dispatch. Eugène des Granges informs me 
that his uncle is no more; he arrived just in 
time to receive his last embrace.” 

“ And his inheritance as well, I trust.” 

“ And his inheritance as well,” repeated Jean, 
with the faintest of smiles; adding, “ which is 
an important one. Laure makes a fine match — 
thanks to you, my dear Olga; your aid came 
just at the right moment. But it is not only as 
a bearer of sad, but of good news, that I allowed 
myself to interrupt your meditations; it is also 
to say that my wife thinks we would best return 
to Paris at once, in order to make all necessary 


174 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


preparations. The marriage might take place 
in two or three months — sufficient mourning, I 
should say, for an uncle, even a rich one. That 
would bring us to December; Paris is quite 
itself again toward that time, and we wish to 
have a grand wedding. We are determined to 
spare nothing on this occasion; Laure’s future 
requires it. Then it may facilitate the establish- 
ment of Claire — and Maxime.” 

Olga turned slowly upon him, and forced his 
naturally evasive eyes to rest upon hers. 

“ Maxime’s marriage need not cost you a 
moment’s anxiety. He is to marry Marca. We 
shall celebrate the two weddings together; it 
will be very nice. Marca will then be eighteen; 
it is young, but still a very suitable age. In a 
week we shall all be at home again in Paris. 
You may go when you choose. I give you eight 
days to make up your mind, and force your wife 
to accede to my will. Monday next, at this very 
hour, you will be kind enough to call upon me with 
Maxime, and ask for my goddaughter’s hand.” 

“ Maxime scarcely seems to me capable of 
making a wife quite happy; leave him a year or 
two of liberty.” 

“I will leave him three months — neither more 
nor less. As to their happiness, that is their 
affair, not mine — or yours. They chose to 
play at being lovers this summer; they must 
now take their play in earnest. It is useless to 
discuss this thing any more; it is decided — and 
shall take place.” 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


175 


Never before had Olga been quite so haughty. 
The bitterness of her past meditations made her 
voice hard, her look inflexible. Yet even to 
such persons as Jean de Schneefeld there comes 
a moment when one must assume a little dignity 
or despise oneself forever after. 

“ It is possible, however, that this marriage 
may never take place; ” and this time he looked 
Olga straight in the eyes. 

“Tut — my dear fellow, you talk nonsense. 
Resistance to my will would prove too costly a 
luxury. You think, perhaps, that if you suc- 
ceed in putting Marca aside the fortune your 
brother left me is sure to go back to you, and 
that the heiress Maxime might marry would, on 
the other hand, add to that fortune. You mis- 
take. I will found a hospital for stray dogs rather 
than leave my money to those who go against 
my wishes.” 

“ But there is still another phase to that mar- 
riage question,” said Jean, softly. “ Maxime is 
not the only one who has noticed and admired 
Marca. The girl does not yet know her own 
mind. Leave her at least the time to discover 
whether she really prefers a handsome young- 
man, who certainly will pass quite unnoticed 
through life, or — an eminent artist, who is al- 
ready famous and is destined to become more 
so.” 

“This is not the first time, Jean, that you 
have insinuated this;” — Olga was perfectly calm 
— “ but be quite at ease on that score. I have 


176 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


observed the two, and I can assure you that Marca 
is no more in love with Mr. Nariskine than he is 
with her.” 

“ I have observed them, also, and am much 
less convinced than you seem to be of their mu- 
tual indifference. Mr. Nariskine left your house 
suddenly, having convinced himself that Marca 
really cared for my son. On his return, he saw 
that Maxime was less lover-like than he used to 
be, and that Marca had grown pale and sad; he 
no longer thinks travelling necessary to his 
health.” 

Olga, in spite of all her efforts, grew very 
white. There was a moment of painful silence; 
then she repeated: 

“You are mistaken; but were you not, I 
should not for so little a thing change my plans. 
Marca shall marry her cousin three months 
hence.” 

“Well, then, — permit me, as a father, to 
touch upon certain delicate questions, which it 
is impossible to leave quite aside.” 

“Which means — money affairs. Since the 
pill is hard to swallow, I will gild it. What do 
you require ? ” 

Jean had often meditated over the answer he 
should give to such a question; still he hesi- 
tated, trying to guess from his sister-in-law’s ex- 
pression how far he might venture to stretch his 
pretensions. At last he said, lowering his voice, 
as one instinctively does on solemn occasions: 

“ In Maxime’s position, with his handsome 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


177 


face and pleasant manners, he might aspire to 
the hand of a well-born girl, even if that hand 
held more than a million — two, perhaps. Now 
Marca is not well-born.” 

“ And for that reason I give her three mill- 
ions.” 

Jean had not expected such regal generosity. 
Had Olga at once said what her intentions really 
were he would have watched with less interest 
the growing love of the painter. However, he 
merely bowed, and presently said in his softest 
drawling tones : 

“Ybu have always spoken of your adopted 
daughter as your heiress; this marriage would 
but strengthen your resolution, I fancy.” 

“ I take no engagement on that score ; # but it 
is probable. However, I trust to keep my heir- 
ess waiting as long as possible. What you may 
take for granted is that Claire, when she be- 
comes Marca’s sister-in-law, may expect a wed- 
ding present equal to that which I have given 
to Laure. Now that all is understood between us, 
go and enjoy the mingled fury and delight of 
your amiaole spouse. I wish to hear nothing 
more of the affair for eight days. Then, and 
then only, I shall prepare Marca for the joy that 
awaits her;” and she dismissed him with a 
haughty gesture. 

The signal of departure was welcome to all. 
Country life seems insupportable to Parisians 
after the first yellow leaves. Madame de Yignon 
especially sighed for her dear Paris. One day, 
12 


178 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


when she was in all the flurry of her preparations, 
her lord, left consequently a little more to him- 
self than usual, sauntered into the drawing-room, 
where Marca happened to be alone, sorting her 
music. He sat down near her. 

“ How everything comes to an end, hey ? 
One comes, one goes ! It is as though one had 
not been. Quite like life, is it not ? ” 

“ What lugubrious talk, Monsieur de Vignon ! 
Have you been reading the German philosophers 
this evening ? ” 

“ I’m not overmuch given to reading the phi- 
losophers of any nation. But there are moments 
when one stops to think a bit — birthdays, for 
instance. I am forty-eight years of age since 
this morning, and I was wondering whether I 
had had in all forty-eight hours of happiness. 
It is all my fault, of course; but you know it’s 
not any the more consoling for that. If I had 
a son I should say to him: ‘My boy, look at 
me, — listen to the story of my life, and be very 
careful to do just the opposite.’ But I never 
had a son — only girls, nothing but girls. Do 
you think they will inherit the — hum ! — the 
great faculty for rapid talk which distinguishes 
their mother ? If so, I should choose deaf men 
as their husbands.” 

While talking, M. de Vignon had been exam- 
ining Marca through his eye-glass with such 
persistency that she felt quite ill at ease; he 
noticed this, and said, softly: 

“Pardon me — I am very rude. But I was 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


179 


thinking likenesses are such odd things, as we 
all know. You are not aware, perhaps, that we 
lost our eldest daughter. Well, I cannot help 
fancying that I see her in you; not one feature, 
perhaps, is exactly like a feature of hers, — but 
when you look at me so, it seems to me that it 
is my darling’s eyes that are fixed on me. It 
was I who took care of her — my wife was ill at 
the time; she loved me well, my wee girl, and 
shé died in my arms. She had not yet learned 
that I was a ridiculous sort of fellow, who had 
not known how to make something out of his 
life. Certainly her eyes were like yours.” 

He rose and walked about, more moved than 
he cared to appear. Then he suddenly went up 
to Marca and took her hands in his, saying hur- 
riedly, while with a jerk of his eyebrow he* got 
rid of his glass: 

“You are happy just now; you have every- 
thing a girl needs — even to a lover; so that 
what I want to say seems ridiculous — like my- 
self. But really now, if you should ever need a 
friend Maurice de Vignon would be proud to 
be that friend. Remember it.” 

Then, as though he feared a conjugal appari- 
* tion, he hurried from the room. Marca looked 
after him in mute astonishment. 


CHAPTER XV. 


T HE “ getting home,” after an absence of 
some months, is always a delightful sensa- 
tion. Marca felt keenly what we have all ex- 
perienced — the new look of familiar objects. 
She went about the Paris house like a curious 
child. It seemed to her that the colors of furni- 
ture and draperies were more intense. Her 
eyes, grown unaccustomed, now discovered in 
every object a sort of individuality. She took 
pleasure in examining every picture, every pretty 
knick-knack; each seemed to welcome her, to 
tell her that she was really “at home.” She 
revelled in the harmonious combination of colors, 
in the soft richness of the silky stuffs which fell 
in such heavy folds. She had always instinct- 
ively loved pretty things; but now that her ar- 
tistic education had been perfected, that love had 
grown to be a sort of passion. The sight of 
ugly, ill-shaped objects, the hideous aspect of 
misery, affected her painfully, almost physically. 
Her godmother laughed at her pretty fastidi- 
ousness, her costly fancies; she remembered 
with satirical pleasure the origin of this dainty 
little aristocrat. At such moments the finé 
theories of inherited instincts seemed to her 
mere foolishness. Her forefathers had been 
“hewers of wood and drawers of water.” Marca 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


181 


had delicate hands, long 1 and white, which a 
princess might have envied. It is true, the un- 
known father wore fine furs. 

“ What are you doing, Marca, trotting about 
from room to room, and smiling to yourself?” 
asked Olga, some days after their return. 

“ I am admiring; I have done nothing but 
admire since we have been at home. It seems 
to me that until now I never quite understood 
how beautiful it all is — that the perfect arrange- 
ment of a house is a poem. Everything is har- 
monious, and forms an ideal whole.” 

“ Artistic taste can be bought, my dear, like 
all other things in this life, — if one only has 
money enough.” 

“ It is a fine thing to be very, very rich, is it 
not ? ” Marca said this with such a serious air 
— as though she had suddenly discovered some 
great truth, unknown till then — that her god- 
mother laughed. 

“You think so, do you? Then, for your own 
part, you have no wish to be turned back into a 
poor little ragged Cinderella ? ” She said this 
still smiling, but Marca thought the smile a 
cruel one, and shuddered slightly. 

“ Oh Marraine ! ” and she grew quite pale. 

“ Foolish child ! Do I look like a wicked 
fairy ? Know, young lady, that I have been 
working lately at that frail edifice called your 
happiness. As long as you play the part as- 
signed to you, you have nothing to fear from 
me.” 


182 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


Olga was seated now — and she never occu- 
pied a seat without seeming a queen on her 
throne; so at least thought Marca. The young 
girl had let herself fall on a cushion at her sov- 
ereign’s feet. She was glad to be thus alone 
with her — a thing which rarely happened now- 
adays. 

“ It seems to me sometimes, Marraine, that you . 
are not quite satisfied with me — and I should so 
like to please you ! Without you I am nothing; 
were you to take your protecting arm from 
around me I should fall to the ground. I know 
this very well. Yet it is not fear which prompts - 
me to speak thus — I feel quite secure in your 
generous kindness. But I want mçre still — 
your affection, which I seem powerless to win. 
There must be something very wrong or incom- 
plete in me, since I have not yet succeeded in 
doing so. Dear Marraine ! — I know that you 
hate ‘scenes,’ but there is nothing of the sort in 
this case; I am talking to you quietly; I do not 
mean to cry or make a fuss; I am quite calm. 
You speak of the part I have to play; I fear 
that I do not quite understand what you mean 
by that. I had always thought that in a daugh- 
ter’s duty — and I am like your daughter, am I 
not ? — there should enter affection, and caresses, 
and a little nonsense even ; — and see how foolish 
I am î I dare not act as a daughter should act — 
indeed, Marraine, I dare not.” 

“You are a good little girl, Marca, and I am 
certainly fond of you; but affection with me is a 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


183 


quiet sentiment, which does not require expan- 
sive demonstrations; but it is none the less affec- 
tion. I mean to prove that I am really a mother 
to you. Listen: You love Maxime; in three 
months you are to be his wife; your marriage is 
to take place the same day as Laure’s.” 

Marca started up, and stood quite straight and 
stiff; there was no color in her cheeks. Olga 
looked at her in astonishment; she had never 
thought the child capable of so much emotion. 

“ In three months ...” she repeated the 
words several times, almost unconsciously. 

“ Certainly,” answered Olga. “ I fancy that 
the idea of being his wife is not an unfamiliar 
idea to you. Was there not some love-making 
and exchanging of vows this summer ? Have you 
ceased to care for him ? ” 

“No — no, Marraine. It always seemed to me 
quite natural and right that I should marry him 
— some day. But 1 thought of it as something 
far off, quite dim in the distance — a little like 
the ‘ when I am grown up ’ of children. But 
three months hence! Does he really love me ? Will 
his family consent to receive me as a daughter? 
Why does his mother turn from me? One would 
say that some shameful story . . .” 

She stopped, fearing to cry, — remembering, 
even in the midst of her strong emotion, that 
her godmother hated “a fuss.” 

“ Everything is pleasantly and comfortably 
arranged, my dear; you are not only to be en- 
dured, but to be received with open arms.” And 


184 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


as Marca looked at her with astonished eyes, she 
continued: “ Did you not acknowledge yourself, 
just now, that wealth was the greatest of all ma- 
gicians ? ” 

“ You buy me a husband ! ” Marca was no 
longer pale; her face crimsoned with shame. 

“Since I can no longer buy you a doll ! — re- 
serve your virtuous indignation for a better oc- 
casion. Your case is that of nearly all girls in 
our world. Do you think that Laure would be 
on the point of becoming 4 vicomtesse ’ if I had 
not doubled her fortune ? You and Maxime have 
played at being in love — continue your pretty 
game; money affairs are kept out of your ken — 
others attend to them for you. Be grateful and 
happy as long as you can.” 

“ You are very good and generous, Marraine;” 
but there was no longer ^the spontaneity and 
youthful enthusiasm which a little while before 
had nearly touched Olga. She turned abruptly 
and looked into the young girl’s eyes. 

“ Has your freak changed ? Have you some 
new fancy which has taken the place of that first 
fancy of yours ? ” 

“ Oh no, Marraine ! ” Marca was alarmed — 
the look of those clear light eyes was so cruelly 
luminous. 

“ I have been told that Maxime was not the 
only one to have made love to you. Is it true ? 
Answer. There would be nothing astonishing 
in such a thing; — you are supposed to be rich.” 

“ No one else has made love to me — or 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


185 


thought of me, that I know of.” She was so 
frankly astonished at the question that Olga 
was a little ashamed of her violence. “ That is,” 
added the young girl, smiling, “when his wife is 
out of the way Monsieur de Vignon does look at 
me a great deal, while sucking his stick-knob. 
But then, I could not marry him, could I ? ” 
Olga took a long breath. There was no pos- 
sibility of doubting Marca’s perfect truthfulness. 
She grew quite affectionate, and patted the 
girl’s cheek. 

“ What a naughty child ! Take care how you 
excite Madame de Vignon’s jealousy ! She will 
be putting poison in your wine some day.” She 
laughed, then went on more seriously: “ We 
shall be very busy during these coming months. 
In the first place, you must give Mr. Nariskine 
all the sittings he requires.” 

“ It is so tiresome to sit ! He pretends that I 
am very difficult, and he makes me sit more than 
the others. It is not fair ! ” 

“ I wish my picture to be his best work; there- 
fore you will be pleased to sit whenever he asks 
you to do so.” She said this severely. 

“Yes — yes — Marraine; I will do anything, 
so that you do not frown at me ! ” 

The very next day, Marca was ordered to give 
a long sitting in the winter garden, which Nar- 
iskine had transformed into a painting-room. 
He worked feverishly. His picture was now 
almost finished. He had made a number of 
sketches from Marca, but had never quite sue- 


186 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


ceeded in pleasing himself; now he was working 
seriously at the painting of her figuré on the 
large canvas. 

Olga, dressed for visiting, was buttoning her 
gloves, while making some slight criticisms upon 
the light and shade of the face. She was look- 
ing well, and very handsome, that afternoon; a 
slight flush made her seem remarkably young. 

“I am going to leave you,” she said quietly. 
“I have a visit to make, but I shall be back in 
an hour. I expect my brother-in-law, who has 
an important communication to make to me, it 
seems.” 

Marca felt herself grow red, then very pale. 
She guessed what that communication was. It 
was cruel to make her sit on such a day . . . 

but Olga, did not appear to notice her agitation, 
and, smiling quietly, she left them, saying : 

“ I have given orders that you should not be 
disturbed ; so work well till my return.” 

She seemed in no hurry ; as she crossed the 
drawing-room, she stopped to pick a flower ; 
then she disappeared. 

Scarcely had she shut the door behind her, 
when her expression changed. Her smile was 
gone ; a straight fold between the eye-brows 
gave her a hard and cruel look. She hurried to 
her own room, quickly took off her silk dress 
and put on a woollen gown, dark and soft, then 
slipped on thin shoes which made no noise. 

Everything had been carefully prepared before- 
hand ; high, wide-leaved plants formed an almost 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


187 


impenetrable screen. In order to get close up to 
the painter and his model, and stand behind that 
screen of verdure, Olga had, with her own 
dainty hands, by removing plants here and there, 
contrived a narrow alley ; this path led from her 
room window, which opened on the conservatory, 
to within a few steps of Nariskine. 

She slipped along with infinite precautions 
— scarcely breathing, growing pale when by 
chance a leaf struck her face as she passed. 
Everything had ‘been prepared by her for the 
accomplishment of her design. The few words 
uttered as she left to pay her pretended visit 
had been carefully studied; she knew that they 
would be understood. If Ivan indeed loved 
Marca he would not fail to improve this last op- 
portunity of telling her of his love. If Maxime 
were once openly accepted he would be forced 
to resign himself. She would not believe Jean’s 
perfidious insinuations; she despised them, yet 
she wanted to be surer still — to hear, to see for 
herself. 

She was angry with herself when she found 
that the violent beating of her heart caused a 
haze before her eyes, a din in her ears. The 
murmur of the little fountain hard by seemed 
formidable as the roar of a winter torrent. But 
this tumult soon calmed; she was mistress of 
herself once more, and all her faculties were con- 
centrated in the eager watching. 

There was but a slight screen of foliage be- 
tween her and the group. She saw but the 


188 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


painter’s side face. Marca was just in front of 
her. The girl was quite motionless; she had 
certainly never sat so well before; her eyes were 
cast down, her cheeks were burning; her 
thoughts were evidently far away — and evi- 
dently, too, Ivan had no share in them. There 
was absolute silence in the winter-garden; noth- 
ing was heard save the silvery trickling of the 
water. Olga breathed more freely; if any words 
had been exchanged before her arrival they had 
certainly been words of no importance. She felt 
that she should never quite forgive herself for 
having condescended to act the spy. Once she 
actually turned to retrace her steps. But a fas- 
cination kept her at her post. Her eyes, full of 
dark fire, were fixed on her lover’s face. It 
seemed to her that he was pale, and that his 
fingers trembled; but she was not sure of this. 

Suddenly Ivan threw down his brushes. Marca 
looked up in astonishment. 

“You quite frightened me! What is the 
matter? You cannot complain of your model 
to-day, it seems to me.” 

“You sit too well.” 

“ Do you know that great painters are not 
easily satisfied — they are a fantastic race ! ” 
She tried to smile at him, but her lips trembled. 

“ The Baron de Schneefeld is coming this 
afternoon, in state, to ask for the honor of call- 
ing you daughter-in-law; is he not? .... 
Do not be angry with me, Marca; this plan of a 
marriage between Maxime and you is no secret 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


189 


— for me less than for others. Am T not almost 
one of the family ? a man in no way dangerous, 
with whom, against all French notions of pro- 
priety, you may be left, quite unprotected; 
whom no one could think of as a possible lover 
to a pretty girl; who seems older far than he 
really is; ugly, too, — of no great consequence.” 

“ Or, rather,” said Marca gently, “a dear 
friend in whom we all have great confidence, 
whom we could not think of treating as a mere 
acquaintance.” 

“Then, if you have confidence in me, you 
will listen to me; you will not be angry even if 
I say things which must sadden you ? ” 

“I shall not be angry, certainly. But if the 
topic is painful why should you touch upon it ? 
Believe me, I have thought over all that you 
could find to say on the subject, many, many 
times.” She sat down, quite wearily. 

“You cannot — you must not marry him ! ” 
Ivan spoke almost roughly, in a husky voice. 

“You mistake. I shall be his wife.” 

“ But you do not love him ! My poor child, 
he has wearied your patience; indeed, you do 
not love him.” 

“Listen to me, Mr. Nariskine. I have often 
heard it said that love is blind; but I do not 
believe it. I see Maxime’s faults quite clearly, 
yet I love him in spite of them. Think of it; 
the first time I felt my heart beat with violence, 
it was for love of him; he came before me as the 
very embodiment of happiness; and when one 


190 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


is very young one turns instinctively to all that 
is bright and joyous. I loved him, scarcely 
knowing what it was to love; but it was once 
and forever. At first I thought of our probable 
marriage as of some beautiful dream — some- 
thing like the ending of a fairy tale, cloudless 
happiness, an impossible mixture of joy and 
youth and pretty things — jewels, flowers, wed- 
ding veils ... a child’s notion of marriage. 
But I am no longer a child; I have suffered a 
little already, and I look toward the future with 
sobered eyes. Maxime has an excellent heart, 
but he is a little frivolous, and the easy life he 
has led so far has given him notions on love and 
marriage which are not my notions. Still I love 
him. I see dimly before me days of sadness, 
jealous tears which I shall do my best to hide, 
many anxious hours; but all that will pass. The 
time will come when he will understand that his 
wife’s entire devotion is a thing to appreciate 
above the foolish pleasures he now prizes. I 
am willing to w T ait for that time — because I 
love him.” 

“ Poor little Marca ! poor little girl ! yours is 
an illusion with which all noble-hearted women 
begin life; that of saving the man they love, by 
dint of entire devotion. It is only an illusion ; 
but it may sometimes become a reality, when 
one has to do with a rough nature which needs 
a softening influence — a nature where there is 
something to work upon. But it is a mere illu- 
sion with a Maxime de Schneefeld; he is un- 


A MERE CA PRICE . 


191 


stable, weak in character, — unmanly. Since 
your betrothal — since that moment when it was 
given him to save you, to hold you in his arms, 
— since that moment when, if he was ever des- 
tined to change, that change would have mani- 
fested itself — what has happened? His one 
thought has been to forget, in foolish trifling 
with others, a love which wearied him because 
it called for earnest love in return. Vanity, a 
petty, mean vanity, is his one great passion; and 
he felt humiliated at the contact with a nature 
far above his own. Oh, I know you ! You will 
try to make yourself little, and humble, by his 
side; you will endeavor to place him on a throne, 
and hide yourself in the shadow of his borrowed 
greatness. But you will not succeed, you poor 
child; all your magnanimous efforts will be lost. 
You are preparing for yourself a life of misery, 
which will give him as little happiness as it can 
give you.” 

Marca had risen, pale and trembling. She 
tried several times to stop this torrent of words, 
uttered with feverish rapidity; but in vain. 
Ivan was carried away by the passion he no 
longer cared to hide. At last she cried: 

“ By what right do you say these things ? ” 

“ By the right which my great love gives 
me ! ” He had seized her hands and forced her 
to look at him. “ Yes — I love you, Marca, — I 
love you, do you hear ? I have measured that 
love of mine with the paltry feeling of your 
paltry lover. I have followed him, and pried 


192 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


intQ his life, and counted his low and shameful 
sins; for I wanted to know what manner of man 
it was who had won that inestimable treasure — 
your young heart. And I do know. Believe 
me when I tell you, Marca, that if I had found 
in this pretty fellow one spark of real manliness, 
one generous impulse, if I could have said to 
myself, ‘ he is unworthy of her now, but there is 
some hope that he may grow to appreciate the 
prize he has won,’ I should never have spoken 
to you as I am now speaking. Believe me, 
Marca, pray believe me. All this sweet dream 
of mine — the dream in which I saw at my side 
a young and gracious presence, a fair wife, at 
whose feet I should have cast my life, my hopes, 
my pride, with the patient hope, that some day I 
should hear her dear voice saying, ‘ My poor Ivan, 
I do love you — a little ! ’ — that dream of mine 
should never have been put in words. You 
should have gone your way, my darling, never 
guessing that your feet had walked upon my 
heart. But Maxime is unworthy of you, and I 
can prove it. You cannot be his wife — you can- 
not. I will not have you marry him ! ” . 

His voice was tremulous with passion. Olga 
knew those accents. Until then she had lis- 
tened in a sort of daze, scarcely understanding. 
It was as though she were under the influence 
of some cruel nightmare, with the consciousness 
that the waking moment could not be far off. 
But now the wretched woman was beginning to 
understand. It was her lover who was speak- 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


193 


ing; and the words were addressed to another. 
She was forgotten. She almost fainted; the 
very ground seemed to crumble from under her 
feet. . . . Ivan no longer loved her !... 

To keep from falling, she caught at a branch, 
which bent with a crackling noise. This slight 
sound brought her to herself again; for she was 
afraid of being discovered now, — she wanted to 
hear more, to know all; she took a sort of hor- 
rible pleasure in torturing herself to the end. 
The crackling, which had seemed to her a for- 
midable sound, had not even been heard on the 
other side of the leafy screen. But she had lost 
some sentences. Marca was seated once more, 
and the tears were falling noiselessly from her 
eyes, as she said: 

“ How should I have guessed this ? ” 

“ How indeed, dear ? I took such pains to hide 
my love from you — from others — from myself 
even. I was forced to do this.” 

“Believe me,” said Marca, doing her best to 
speak firmly. “You are mistaken when you 
think that you care for me — in that way. I 
have thought of you, more perhaps than you are 
aware. 1 was pleased with your great success, 
and remembering that you had had many hard 
years before attaining to that success, I often 
said to myself, in my great wisdom, that it was a 
sad pity no loving woman, who had helped you to 
bear the weary waiting, should now stand proudly 
by you, and make your triumph really beautiful. 
And I never thought of a mere girl, like myself, 


194 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


but of a true woman, grand and calm. . . 

Since I have said thus much, I must go on, and 
tell you all my thought. Do you remember how, 
on that first evening when you came among us, 
you stood before my godmother like a man in an 
ecstasy? I then fancied that you had fallen 
suddenly and madly in love with her; I was glad, 
because it seemed to me that, young as she still 
is, she would be an ideal wife to a man of gen- 
ius, whom she could appreciate and of whom 
she would be very proud. Was I mistaken ? 
Tell me how, seeing her every day, you could 
ever have thought of me ? That is what I do 
not understand.” 

There was a silence; Ivan seemed lost in 
thought. Olga was livid; she pressed her nails 
into the flesh of her hands, to conquer herself by 
sheer pain; she wanted to rush forward and call 
out to him, “ Traitor ! — traitor ! — answer if you 
dare ! ” Then seeing that he was about to speak, 
she remained motionless — all her powers con- 
centrated in the sense of hearing. 

“You force me, Marca, to speak of things I 
would rather have passed over in silence; things 
which you will scarcely understand. That even- 
ing of which you speak was not the first occasion 
on which I had seen the Baronne de Schneefeld; 
it was, however, the first occasion on which I 
had seen her in her real sphere — at home. I 
had for years loved her as few women have been 
loved. For her misfortune, for mine too, per- 
haps, I was allowed to see my idol too familiar- 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


195 


ly. I have learned to know Olga — not as I had 
fancied her, but as she really is. I at last un- 
derstand, after many revolts, after many a re- 
turn to my original faith, that the ideal being 
who one day brought light and happiness to my 
dingy painting-room was not at all the same 
woman who lived in her Paris house, surrounded 
by courtiers and sycophants, with whom she 
played as with toys — knowing their meanness 
and laughing at it; doing good, perchance, as 
she would do evil — by caprice. She is a mon- 
strous product of a false civilization; she has 
but the outward appearance of humanity. I 
once thought her a creature quite apart from 
ordinary mortals — and indeed she is a creature 
apart from the rest; for most of us, in spite of 
weaknesses and vices, have some heart — she 
has none. When one falls from a great height 
there is no escape from death. My love for this 
woman is quite dead. In the olden days I could 
never see her without falling in adoration at her 
feet, imploring her as one might implore a god- 
dess. I can never see her now without a shudder 
of horror, of repulsion. This last feeling is as 
extreme as the first. I was slave to the first 
emotion — I cannot master the last. I think it 
is because I saw you by her side that I first 
learned to love you; the very contrast helped to 
open my eyes. She is a clever actress, and never 
forgets her part. You are simply yourself, and 
that suffices. She- is the embodiment of lawless 
passion. I had but to look at you to see before 


196 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


my eyes the sweet and holy picture of home life; 
I could fancy you moving softly here and there, 
giving happiness to others, happy yourself, gay, 
young, loving, and pure. . . . Yes, dear, 

believe me, that which attracts men above all 
things is that perfect purity; it is that we wor- 
ship, we revere; it is for love of that that I now 
say to you, Marca, try to reflect, to understand; 
compare the paltry feeling which Maxime calls 
his love with the deep feeling you have awa’k- 
ened in me — the respect, the adoration; try to 
weigh the two, my sweet one. It is not only for 
my own happiness that I am pleading, it is for 
yours also. A woman cannot love a being she 
despises — and you Would learn to despise him. 
Do not turn from me. I know that all this is 
terribly sudden; I know, too, that I am no lover 
for a girl of your age — that I am ugly and awk- 
ward. But you would learn to forget these 
things; I would teach you, little by little, to 
care for me, by dint of great devotion, of greater 
patience. I have a whole life’s tenderness to 
place at your feet. I have been mad, there has 
been idolatrous passion in my past existence; 
but that was not love — at least not the sort of 
love made of tender admiration and respect, 
which I feel for you.” 

“ It is too late ! ” cried Marca. “ Oh, pray, 
pray do not torture me thus ! Indeed it is too 
late ! ” 

“ No, Marca, it is not too late. Listen to me, 
quietly. I have contrived everything; you have 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


197 


nothing to fear from Olga’s anger; I have se- 
cured a safe hiding-place for you, until the day 
when the law permits me to claim you as my wife. 
After that — touch you who dare ! Everything 
is arranged also to shield you, should you refuse 
to follow me. No harm shall come, through my 
fault, to the one I love. No one but you shall 
know my folly, shall guess at my despair. If, 
after having thought over my words, you say JVo, 
then I shall leave Paris; an hour after your fatal 
decision I shall be far away. I have already 
written a letter to the baronne saying that my 
sufferings have come back to me with such vio- 
lence that I am forced to go in search of a milder 
climate; on my way to the station I shall throw 
it in a letter-box. You must say that a par- 
oxysm shook me while I was at work — that will 
explain your agitation. I shall go — I know not 
where; and certainly Olga shall not easily find 
out my hiding-place. I could not see you mar- 
ried — I could not. ... I say all these 
things to you, dear, so as to give you time to 
reflect — to recover your presence of mind. I 
have been forced to frighten you by my abrupt 
disclosure, so little time was left to me. But I 
know very well that all these precautions are 
useless. Say that they are useless ! Come, my 
darling ! you are not in your place here, among 
these false beings of a false world; you have 
nothing in common with them, for you are sim- 
ple and good and truthful. Come ! I do not 
frighten my darling, do I? There is a carriage 


198 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


waiting; as you leave this house shake the dust 
from your feet. You will leave behind you 
grea,t wealth, and you will be ill-judged. But 
by your husband’s side, none of their calumnies 
can reach you; and your husband will work for 
you, and give you comforts and luxuries — much 
love too, and infinite gratitude. Come, my dar- 
ling, come ! ” 

Marca listened — frightened, trembling, feel- 
ing her bead swim, her senses reel, scarcely 
understanding that passionate pleading. But 
when she became aware that Ivan was trying to 
lead her gently away, she started back, and said 
in a suffocated way: 

“ I love Maxime ! — I love Maxime ! Do you 
not hear? — do you not understand? I love 
Maxime.” - ' ' 

He stopped short. It was not possible; he 
could not have heard aright; he half smiled — a 
dazed, stupid smile. Then he passed his hand 
over his forehead and waited a few moments. 
It was a dreadful silence. Marca w^as sobbing. 

“You are crying, Marca,” he said gently. 

“You frighten me — you break my heart !” 

“ You will not marry me ?” » 

“ No No !... Oh, leave me ! — pray 
leave me ! ” 

“As you will — yes, I am going.” He waited 
once more, very humbly. All his passionate 
violence had left him. He seemed a broken 
man. 

“Farewell, Marca ! farewell, my dream — my 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


199 


happiness.” His voice trembled; Marca lifted 
up her child face, covered with tears. 

“ I am so sorry if I have hurt you ! I wish I 
could console you ! ” 

Ivan went up to her, and kissed her on the 
forehead. “It is not your fault. Good-bye, 
Marca ! ” 

“ Good-bye ! ” 

He turned, and went, very slowly, very 
wearily. Olga saw him go; she Jpnged to 
scream, but no sound would come from her 
parched throat. He was going, disappearing 
out of her life, and she had not even had the joy 
of vengeance; she had not been able to call out 
to him — to tell him that she knew him to be a 
traitor, that she had heard each cruel word, that 
she had tasted the bitter cup of humiliation to 
the very dregs, and that she would be avenged. 
She stood like a statue, quite unable to move. 
Was this death which was coming to her rescue ? 
It must be a relief to feel the cold insensibility 
steal over one — to lie rigid and cold in the 
tomb, nevermore to hear cruel words, to feel 
one’s heart pierced through and through. Die ? 
. . . not yet — not yet; she remembered that 

there was something to be done first. What it 
was she could not yet remember. How painful 
is that effort to bring one’s benumbed memory 
into life again — to call together one’s ideas 
which are scattered far, far away ! But that 
painful effort — she must make it. 

There ! : — at last she has succeeded in raising a 


200 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


hand, a cold, stiff hand, to her head; the blood 
begins once more to circulate in the veins; the 
half-fainting fit has passed. Ah, memory comes 
back to her I She now knows what it is that 
remains to be done. 

Marca was still crying; she was, however, 
doing her best to conquer her emotion; she 
knew that she could not remain alone much 
longer; she should soon be obliged to answer 
questions, to seem composed. She remembered 
all that Ivan had told her to say. She wiped 
her eyes, trying to be calm, when suddenly she 
remained motionless, her eyes dilated with fear; 
the leaves of a palm were held back by a white 
hand, and in the midst of the greenery she saw 
her godmother’s face, which, however, she had 
some difficulty in recognizing. This face was 
horribly beautiful — the face of a sphinx, cruelly 
exulting over an enemy’s agony. Marca under- 
stood it all. Ivan and she were victims of a 
carefully combined plot. She was lost; she 
knew that quite well. 

Olga left her hiding-place. She had recovered 
all the elasticity of her movements. She bounded 
toward the girl, and Marca closed her eyes, as 
though she expected instantaneous death. Olga 
took the small wrists in her grasp with such vio- 
lence that Marca screamed. 

“ Let me look at you ! — let me guess what it 
was in your foolish face that fascinated him ! 
Let me understand how it came to pass that he 
preferred such a doll to Olga de Schneefeld ! 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


201 


Speak ! — speak, I tell you, that I may hear the 
voice he so loves ! ” 

“ There is no fault of mine in all this, Mar- 
raine,” said the poor child. 

“ It was only yesterday, I think, that you 
swore no man save Maxime had courted you. 
You lied; but then, lies and ingratitude always 
go hand-in-hand.” 

“You yourself were witness of my astonish- 
ment. I never even guessed . . .” 

“ Creatures of your kind are capable of every 
infamy, of every dissimulation.” She spoke at 
random, knowing but one thing — that she held 
the trembling girl in her power, and that in tor- 
turing her she should vent a part at least of her 
furious anger. 

The sound of footsteps was heard: Baron 
Jean and his son stopped on the threshold in 
silent amazement. Olga, seeing them, burst into 
a mad fit of laughter — dreadful laughter, that 
seemed to have screams and sobs in it. 

“Ah, yes ! I had forgotten. You have come 
to claim the pretty bride. Your request is 
granted, gentlemen. Here is your future wife, 
Maxime. Take her; but take her as she is — a 
beggar; nameless, homeless, with the pretty 
reputation I mean to give her. I shall proclaim 
loudly that I surprised her just now in her lov- 
er’s arms; and all Paris shall ring with the re- 
port ! ” 

Olga threw Marca from her with such violence 
that the young girl almost fell at Maxime’s feet. 


202 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


But she rose quickly, and faced her torturer 
proudly. 

“ That is a wicked lie — so monstrous a lie 
that no one will believe it.” 

“ I, for one, do not believe it.” 

Maxime said this with spirit. Marca uttered 
a joyous cry, and took refuge in his outstretched 
arms. 

“ What matters it whether it be true or false ? 
It shall become the town talk — that I promise 
you. If you wish now to know the real story, 
I will tell it to you. Every girl about to "marry 
requires to break some heart — her vanity would 
suffer otherwise; to the happiness of the ac- 
cepted suitor she must oppose the despair of the 
rejected lover. And do you know whom she 
chose for this part ? The only man I ever cared 
for — my lover, Ivan Nariskine. I picked this 
creature out of the street mud, brought her up, 
called her my daughter, made a little princess 
of her; — and this is her gratitude ! She has 
snatched my one happiness from me, as a play- 
thing to be trifled with. And she is of so poor 
a nature, so low, that she did not even under- 
stand the honor this great man, this noble 
genius, was doing her in wishing to make her 
his wife; she turned from him — for the sake of 
whom? — of a Maxime de Schneefeld — a brain- 
less dandy !... Oh, you need not ex- 
cliim ! This is no time for petty management 
of petty vanities; when one is wounded to 
death one has no time to think of others’ feel- 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


203 


ings. And I am wounded to death. I had 
found that man, poor, unknown, sad, and I gave 
him life and happiness; my love for him was 
more to me than the very breath of life. I 
loved him so ! — =-by his side I was a woman — I 
who had never been but a statue. 

Now all that is gone, is lost.” She was speak- 
ing more to herself than to the others. Her 
voice faltered, getting lower and lower. She 
had forgotten her anger; her gestures were 
those of a mad woman, whose fit of fury had 
passed. Then, suddenly, as she raised her head, 
she met Marca’s glance. She called out harshly: 

“ You still here ? You must be hard of under- 
standing ! — Go ! leave me — never let me see 
your hated doll-face again ! I took you from 
the" gutter — return to the gutter. You have 
asked me more than once to tell you your history. 
You shall be satisfied. Your mother was a poor 
little workwoman, who massacred her native 
tongue — a peasant, born of peasants. She let 
herself be ruined ; — naturally, you creatures are 
inevitably destined to go wrong. I picked her 
up one morning, half dead. She died as you 
were born. . . . That is enough, I fancy, to 

enlighten you. Return whence you came, and 
never let me hear your name mentioned in my 
presence.” 

“Pardon me, aunt Olga. You gave her to 
me as my wife ; I keep her as such. I love 
her.” 

Jean, who till then had remained quite still, 


204 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


now turned toward his son with a furious 
gesture. 

“ Thank you, Maxime, thank you,” said Marca, 
seeing but him, remembering only that he loved 
her. “ I know too well that it may never be ; 
but you have taken me in your arms to protect 
and defend me — and for that I shall love you 
all my life. It is all over ; Marca de Schneefeld 
has ceased to exist ; in her stead there is but a 
poor girl, who does not even know her name. 
Farewell ! ” 

She was going, never taking her eyes from 
him. 

“Fool that you are!” cried Olga, in her 
hard voice ; “you care for the creature — keep 
her ; she is of the tribe to whom one need never 
offer a marriage ring! ” 

Marca turned, with a pitiful cry, and rushing 
toward her godmother threw at her feet all the 
girlish ornaments she wore — rings, ear-drops, 
bracelets — tearing them off with trembling fin- 
gers. She was pulling nervously at a small 
bracelet, when she suddenly exclaimed : 

“No, I forgot — that belongs to me; my 
poor little mother gave it to me.” 

A moment later she had disappeared. 

Maxime was ill at ease, and gloomy. But he 
did not try to retain her ; nor did he follow her. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


I N Madame Langlôis’ little sitting-room, the 
waning light of an Autumn day fell on a 
peaceful group. Pierre Dubois, seated by the 
book-laden table, listened in silence to his 
teacher’s gentle voice. His strong-featured 
face was pale and sad. 

A ring of the bell interrupted the lesson. 
Pierre opened the door, and Madame Langlois, 
who from her place could see the visitor, uttered 
an exclamation of surprise as she recognized 
Marca. 

The young girl, very pale, advanced slowly, 
with a strange timidity. 

“You must know all first — before opening 
your arms to me. I have been sent away. I 
am no longer Marca de Schneefeld; I am — I do 
not know who I am. I do not yet quite under- 
stand it all; my head turns — turns; it is per- 
haps because I have walked so long; for hours, 
I think. I did not know where I was going; I 
was trying to understand. Now I am very 
tired — so very tired 1 I was resting on a bench 
in the Tuileries gardens; there were little chil- 
dren playing about me — happy little children, 
with a mother, and a home, and a name too. As 
I watched them, a sentence came to my mind; 
words which I had heard somewhere — I was so 

205 


206 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


dazed that I could not at first remember where 
— ‘ should misfortune touch you, you would come 
back to me, naturally.’ Then I recognized the 
sound of your dear voice; I saw your little sit- 
ting-room, which I had filled with flowers. I 
have brought no flowers to-day — they are all 
faded and dead.” 

She was steadying herself by leaning on the 
back of a chair. 

Madame Langlois took her in her arms. 

“My child — my daughter ! — for you are my 
daughter now, and you ask whether I will take 
you in my arms! — You dare ask it!” She 
kissed her over and over again, while hot tears 
fell on the girl’s white cheeks. Marca did not 
cry, but she permitted herself to be caressed 
like a weary child. 

“ I have done no harm — indeed I have done 
no harm ! ” she murmured. 

“ Did I ask if you had ? Am I not as sure of 
my little Marca as though indeed she were my 
child?” 

“You are so good. ... But I must tell 
you about it; you may help me to understand. 
I was to marry Maxime — it was at last decided, 
— and he came with his father to ask my hand, 
when . . . how did it come to pass ? Mar- 
raine had arranged it all, combined it with cun- 
ning art; she was hidden behind the plants, and 
she heard Mr. Nariskine, the great painter, tell 
me that he loved me, that I must be his wife, 
that Maxime was not worthy of me. ... It 


A 3IERE CAPRICE. 


207 


seems to me it is all some story heard long 
ago; it does not seem real, even now. ... I 
told him that I loved Maxime, and then he left 
me. He looked like a man who had received a 
great. wound; he was so pale that it made me 
cry. Marraine loved the painter — it seems that 
they had loved each other for years; only his 
love had changed to hatred. She heard all he 
said of her — and she must have suffered terri- 
bly. When she sprang from her hiding-place 
she was like a mad woman. I thought she was 
going to kill me; but she only sent me from her, 
out upon the world, after having crushed me 
before Maxime’s eyes. She said things which I 
cannot understand even now; she taunted me 
with my birth — my mother was a poor little 
peasant girl, abandoned in Paris; she called me 
child of the gutter, picked up by charity. She 
ought to have left me to die in that gutter; it 
would have been less cruel.” 

Pierre had remained a silent spectator; he was 
intensely interested. When she spoke of her 
obscure birth, something like joy glimmered in 
his eyes; he said, much moved: 

“ And your affianced lover — what did he say ? 
what did he do ? ” 

Marca did not seem surprised to see Pierre 
still there; she answered, with quiet pride: 

“ Maxime would believe nothing against me. 
He said, ‘You gave her to me as my wife — I 
keep her as such.’ 1 shall love him all my life 
for those brave words.” 


208 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


“ Then, my child,” said Madame Langlois, “ he 
will find you out, and marry you.” 

“No — no, that can never be. How could he 
marry me ? I was to have been very rich — oh, 
very rich, it seems; and even then his family 
accepted me simply because Marraine would 
have it so. And now — you see that it would be 
impossible. I have nothing. I am nothing; this 
is my only dower,” and with a pitiful smile she 
showed the thin gold circlet about her wrist. 
“My mother left it to me; it was all she had — 
poor little thing ! It would scarcely be enough. 
Maxime needs a great deal of money — he him- 
self told me so; ” and she let her head fall wearily 
once more on her friend’s shoulder. 

Pierre was about to speak again ; but at a sign 
from Madame Langlois, he quietly withdrew. 

“ You are tired out, my child; let your mother 
put you to bed. Let me care for you — pet you; 
let me understand that I am no longer alone in 
the world.” 

Marca wound her arms about Madame Lang- 
lois’ neck. 

“ You are really not angry with me ? I shall 
be the cause of so much trouble to you.” 

“And of so much happiness, my darling ! ” 

Marca was too entirely worn out, body and 
mind, to understand what was going on. She 
vaguely wondered whether the little room where 
she was being undressed was not the only bed- 
room, whether the narrow bed where she was 
being tucked in was not the only bed, of the 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


209 


small establishment. But the idea only floated 
through her mind; all her notions of things and 
places were confused; she had suffered too 
deeply, she was too thoroughly exhausted, to rea- 
son about anything. The physical comfort, the 
gradual falling asleep in a good bed, seemed to 
her the one supreme happiness; her only fear 
was to be obliged to think and to remember. 
The imperious selfishness of unaccustomed suf- 
fering kept her quiet; and even while her new 
mother’s lips still lingered on her forehead, she 
was forgetting all her woes in sleep. 

Madame Langlois, seated by the bed, began 
to reflect deeply; and her meditations were by 
no means gay. She was. asking herself by dint 
of what personal sacrifices she could manage to 
shield this child from want; she was reproaching 
herself for not having forced her, during her 
school days, to work, so as to have in her own 
hand some means of earning her daily bread. 
But then, who could ever have foretold so dread- 
ful a catastrophe ? 

She rose softly, and went to her writing-desk 
to count the small sum that remained of her 
quarter’s allowance; it was a mere pittance. 
Her health, declining day by day, required much 
care, costly care. And after her death, there 
would be nothing. 

She spent a part of the night examining her 
small possessions, so as to put aside what might 
yet be sold ; the small lodging must now be 
organized for two instead of one. At last, worn 


210 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


out, she wrapped herself in a shawl, and threw 
herself on the sofa to rest. 

It was there that Marca, in the early morning, 
found her. She w*as alarmed, seeing her so pale 
and rigid ; but the labored breathing reassured 
her. Then, full of remorse and confusion, she 
awaited the awakening of her new mother. 

“ How pleasant to see a dear young face near 
me — to think that I shall never be alone 
again ! ” Madame Langlois smiled, as though 
she were receiving a favor instead of conferring 
one. 

“ And I stole your bed — your rest ! How 
could you let me be so selfish ? ” 

“ You so needed rest, poor dear ! ” 

Then, hand in hand, they talked long and 
earnestly about the future, and Marca tried to 
appear very brave ; she would forget all her 
brilliant past life, she would work and earn 
money — plenty of money, so as to surround her 
dear mamma with comfort. 

Madame Langlois encouraged her, petted her ; 
pretended not to see the tears that came un- 
bidden into the girl’s eyes; wondering all the 
while how this white-handed princess could 
manage to earn even enough to keep soul and 
body together. Each small detail of her dainty 
toilette spoke of luxury grown to be a habit — 
a habit so easy to acquire, so difficult to lose. 

“ Ah ! ” sighed the good lady, “ if you only 
had your diploma! In France we can do noth- 
ing without that scrap of paper, my poor child.” 


211 


A MERE CAPRICE. 

“ Bat I shall present myself at the very first 
occasion, and obtain it. I mean to work so 
hard ! ” 

As she spoke she looked around the poor 
little sitting-room, so visibly poor, and added 
quickly: 

“ But even before obtaining this famous 
diploma I must try to earn a few pennies — how, 
I do not know ; but I cannot continue to take 
my dear mamma’s bed, and snatch the bread from 
her mouth.” She tried to speak lightly, but her 
lips quivered. 

Madame Langlois remained silent, her thoughts 
busy with the past. 

“ To think,” she at last exclaimed, “ that a 
few years ago I might indeed have received you 
as my daughter, shielded you from all care and 
all want — and that now I can only give you a 
poor shelter and a great deal of useless tender- 
ness ! There are certain sacrifices one ought not 
to make. How hard it is, sometimes, to know 
what one’s duty really is ! ” 

Marca was alarmed at the working of her face, 
at the trembling of her thin hands. She did her 
best to quiet her. 

“ Listen, Marca; you must know me for what 
I am — or, rather, you must know what troubles 
have come to me — before you take the habit 
of calling me mother. It will do me good to 
open my heart — I have been silent so long ! 
You will then see, my darling, that there are sad- 
der stories than yours. . . I had been married 


212 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


three years when my husband, for an odious 
crime, was sent to New Caledonia, as a convict. 
Such things happen, — one hears of them, with- 
out believing much in the possibility of such 
horrors, until they come to oneself. The con- 
vict’s wife remains his wife, and is sullied by his 
infamy. I did what I could; I took back my 
maiden name, and sought to earn my living. I 
could not let myself die of despair, for I had a 
child. I gave lessons, and at last found myself 
at the head of a school. My pupils were prin- 
cipally foreigners; I was glad of this, as they 
would be less liable than French girls to learn 
that I was a convict’s wife. Little by little I 
lost sight of all my old acquaintances, of all 
those who could remind me of the past. Mean- 
while, my son was growing up; I could not 
keep him with me, in the midst of the little 
girls. A distant relative of mine, who felt some 
interest in me, especially since it was evident 
that I needed no one’s, help, offered to take the 
boy and see that he received the best possible edu- 
cation. I accepted — I could not do otherwise; 
was I not working for him ? But my wisdom 
was folly; I ought to have given up my school, 
to have condemned my son and myself to abject 
poverty, rather than to have allowed him to 
leave me; my one duty was to struggle against 
the fatal inheritance of his father’s nature. 
Each day he grew more like that father; he had 
his charm of manner, his light and pleasant 
laugh, his love of pleasure, his weakness, his 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


213 


cowardice. Still years went on, and he gave no 
serious cause of uneasiness. He was almost a 
man. His studies had not been very brilliant, 
but he seemed to have some business capacity. 
He asked to be put in a broker’s office; and in 
spite of my objections, strongly expressed, his 
desire was granted. I wished to have him near 
me; the little fortune I had earned by dint of 
hard work would suffice for my son and myself; 
I was beginning to feel the first symptoms of 
the disease which is killing me, and I wanted 
rest; we were to live together — it was my one 
dream of happiness. Just eight months ago — 
soon after you left me — I was told that my son 
had forged his patron’s signature; the theft 
amounted to two hundred thousand francs; if 1 
consented to pay that sum, the crime would re- 
main unpunished. I had, during twenty years, 
put aside just two hundred thousand francs. I 
asked for twenty-four hours; — at the end of that 
time the broker was paid. With the sale of 
my furniture, and the little money remaining to 
me, I bought a small annuity — just enough to 
keep me from starving; naturally, it dies with 
me. And now that another child has come to 
me, in the place of my lost son, whom I shall 
never see more, I can do nothing for her ! Life 
is indeed hard — and one’s duty often seems 
difficult to decide.” 

“ Dear mamma, you were right to do what 
you did, and your other child will try to comfort 
and console you instead of being a new cause of 


214 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


sorrow and anxiety ! ” Soon, by way of proving 
that she meant to be a useful member of soci- 
ety, Marca went to work, sweeping and dusting, 
putting things to rights, and preparing the 
morning’s coffee. She did her best, but she was 
so entirely inexperienced, and made so many 
blunders — perhaps a little on purpose, so as to 
take Madame Langlois’ attention away from her 
own sorrows — that the two women, who cer- 
tainly had no reason to be very gay, laughed 
more than once. 

It was decided that Marca should occupy the 
little sitting-room. A camp bed must be 
bought, and evidently the sofa became a useless 
luxury; that must be sold, and a few other arti- 
cles, voted equally useless, must be sacrificed. 
There were some inevitable purchases to be 
made for Marca; she had escaped from the 
baronne’s home barely taking time to snatch 
a hat and cloak, and thus had nothing to sell. 

At twelve Pierre entered. He looked as 
though he had not slept, and was more awkward 
than ever, fearing to appear indiscreet. But 
the warm welcome of the two ladies reassured 
him. It was he who attended to the necessary 
changes in the small apartment; who bought 
and sold and put things in order, working with 
a will. Marca, well-veiled, went out to the 
nearest shop to buy some linen, and enough 
black stuff to make a dress, her pretty costume 
being considered, in spite of its simplicity, much 
too elegant for every-day wear. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


FEW days later, Pierre determined, after 



/A many hesitations, to make an appeal to 
Madame de Schneefeld. It seemed to him that 
she must already repent of this odious act of 
hers; that she could not in cold blood thus aban- 
don a young girl who had been looked upon as 
her daughter. He was moved to this reso- 
lution by Marca’s pitiful white face. He saw 
the tears which, in spite of her efforts, welled 
up to her eyes; he guessed how painful were 
her faint attempts at cheerfulness; he watched 
the ill repressed revolts, the instinctive 
shrinking from the hideousness of poverty. 
She should know nothing of his attempt, and 
thus her dignity would be spared. He would be 
eloquent; he would show this woman that her 
conduct was so wicked that the world, in spite 
of its indulgence toward the rich, would end by 
blaming her; — he would be sure to move her. 
Pierre still had many of the illusions of youth. 

The house seemed, to the workman, terribly 
imposing, with its carved front, its grand car- 
riage-sweep before the door, its glittering con- 
servatories, and the luxurious quiet of the beau- 
tiful park, which seemed to be its own garden. 
He fancied Marca in the midst of this magnifi- 
cence, at home, and quietly enjoying wealth, as 


215 


216 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


though indeed she had been born to it. Then, by 
way of contrast, he remembered her as he had 
seen her an hour before, doing her best to cut 
out a dress in the skimp black material she had 
bought, handling the coarse stuff with shrinking 
fingers. She seemed to be making the mourning 
garments for her dead happiness. This thought 
revived Pierre’s sinking courage. 

He rang, and a tall footman opened the door, 
surveying the young man with a comprehensive 
look of disdain. Madame la Baronne had left 
Paris some days before, leaving no address, 
merely ordering letters to be forwarded to St. 
Petersburg. 

Pierre turned away, scarely knowing which 
was the stronger feeling — pity for Marca, or 
joy to think that she now belonged to them — to 
Madame Langlois and himself. 

When one throws a stone into sleeping water, 
there is a great splash and glitter of scattered 
drops — then all is quiet again ; great circles 
ripple the face of the water, then grow smaller 
and fainter, till all is still once more, — and none 
would guess that, deep below, lies a great stone. 

So it was with the terrible catastrophe of 
Marca’s life. Now the shock was past, and day 
succeeded day, monotonously uneventful. At 
first it seemed impossible that something should 
not happen to snatch her away from a life for 
which she was so little fitted. She would start 
at the sound of every footfall; a ring at the bell 
would make her tremble and grow faint. She 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


217 


could not believe that she was quite forgotten. 
Certainly Baron Jean and his wife would be only 
too glad to be well rid of her; but there was her 
little friend Claire — and even Laure could not 
be entirely indifferent to her fate. . . . And 

then Maxime: of course she could never be his 
wife — no one understood that more clearly than 
she did; still, if not as lover, at least as cousin, 
as friend, he might seek her out and help her. 

Perhaps they had made him believe 
some dreadful stories, and he had grown to de- 
spise her. 

She thought of him all the time. She could 
not get his image out of her mind. Indeed, she 
made no great effort to think of anything else. 
She had not meant to do wrong; and without 
this one consolation it seemed to her .that she 
should go mad, in the weary life of petty priva- 
tions which now was hers. Sometimes in the 
quiet of the night, when she thought Madame 
Langlois was sleeping, she would repeat Max- 
ime’s name, softly; then the sobs would come — 
the bitter, convulsive sobs which she did her best 
to choke down by burying her face in the pillow. 
She so passionately longed for a little happi- 
ness ! — it seemed her right; and she rebelled 
and fought against her destiny. There were 
moments when she felt herself grow wicked and 
hard, unable to pray for strength and patience. 
And Madame Langlois would hear the sobs with- 
out daring to console her adopted child, knowing 
that the only hope of a cure was in time and 


218 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


silence. Marca shrank from alluding to Maxime. 
His name was never mentioned; and Madame 
Langlois knew that it was better so. 

As the days passed by, Madame Langlois saw 
with terror her small monthly allowance slip 
away, and she understood it was impossible for 
two people to live upon what barely sufficed for 
one. Marca did her very best; she had insisted 
on having the charwoman dismissed, and bravely 
did all the work herself. But her inexperience 
was costly, and it became evident that there 
must be a change, or poverty would soon become 
absolute want. 

One day Marca found Madame Langlois 
reading a letter. By her side was an account- 
book, and near the book a tiny pile of silver. 

“Come here, my child; I have been worrying 
my brain to discover the means of forcing two 
and two to make six; but I give it up. We 
have been living like rich people — you need not 
smile, my dear — and, unfortunately, we are not 
rich. So I have, after much trouble, found a 
little work for my daughter; she will now be 
able to earn enough — to force two and two to 
make six !” 

“ I am so glad, dear mamma, so glad ! ” 

“ I have lost sight of nearly all my old ac- 
quaintances. But I had a favorite pupil, a for- 
eigner, many years older than you, dear, who 
married a Frenchman. She has never quite 
forgotten me; and 1 wrote to her that she might 
find you such work as a girl, even before her 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


219 


examinations, can accept. She is kind-hearted, 
and has found you just the right place; you are 
to give two hours every morning, and help some 
little girls to learn their lessons. They are the 
children of a certain Comtesse de Vignon. ’ 
“Oh, no — no — not that ! I cannot, mamma, 
indeed I cannot go to that house ! ” 

Yet, some hours later, after having talked the 
matter over with Madame Langlois, when she 
finally understood that a like opportunity might 
not again be found, when she had counted the 
pitifully small sum which still remained for 
household wants and convinced herself that she 
must either accept at once or see the generous 
friend who had become a mother to her suffer 
from hunger, — then, with a white face and set 
lips, she determined to accept. It was the end of 
all things — the final turning away from her past. 
She would take Madame de Vignon’s money so 
as not to starve; it would be a first step on the 
dreary road which now stretched dismally before 
her. She saw herself as she would doubtless be 
some day, a poor old maid, in a scanty black 
dress, slaving so as to be able to sleep in a bed at 
night and not starve by day; joyless, hopeless, 
with a dull, blank future. 

The next morning Marca went to Madame 
de Vignon’s house. She nearly fainted as she 
entered, so that she only half heard the torrent 
of words poured upon her. She only knew that 
the expressions of compassion were mingled with 
many questions, — for the countess was curious, 


220 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


and her curiosity did not seem devoid of a cer- 
tain underlying satisfaction. 

“ It is strange ! — ah, my dear, life is much 
more extraordinary than fiction. ... I am 
not to mention you? 'Rely on my discretion. 
I understand how painful; — besides, now the 
affair is half forgotten; the great subject of in- 
terest is Laure’s marriage. The Baronne Olga’s 
sudden departure was a shock, to be sure; but 
then, as she left the money it did not matter so 
much. At first, of course, you were very much 
talked about; people said all sorts of things — I 
never believed the worst stories, otherwise I 
should not trust you to teach my little girls, 
should I now? After all/you know you were 
not of the family Î . . . So it is all under- 

stood; you are to come every morning from nine 
to eleven — you are sure to meet no one at that 
time. Maxime comes to see me — but only on 
my day; I could not receive him otherwise, for, 
between ourselves, he has a detestable reputa- 
tion, — I might be compromised. They say he 
has taken a small house in some out-of-the-way 
quarter, and that he is to make of it a very nest 
of oriental luxury. Do you know what people 
say? — that Olga gives him any amount of 
money to make him go to the devil faster than 
he otherwise would; — he seems greatly to enjoy 
the journey. Olga is odd, very odd you know? 

. . . Dear ! dear ! I had such a turn when 

the little vicomtesse recommended you as gov- 
erness for my children. I gave such a scream ! 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


221 


After all, it is a pleasure to do a little good in 
this world; — besides, we both agreed that a 
girl who has not passed her examinations could 
not expect to be paid like a regular teacher. I 
seem to be rich, but I am not. I am often ter- 
ribly distressed for money. . . . It is settled, 

is it not ? I shall expect you to-morrow at 
nine ! ” Then, before Marca had reached the 
door, she called out: “By the way, Marca; you 
had better always come up the back staircase — 
you do not mind ? It is out of kindness to you, 
for naturally you would not care to be seen by 
your old acquaintances.” 

Marça had never expected to suffer quite so 
bitterly. Maxime had forgotten her. Maxime 
thought but of himself and his low pleasures. 
She was as though she had never been. 

“ Is it arranged, dear ? ” 

“Yes; I am to begin to-morrow.” 

Madame Langlois did not dare say more; she 
had never yet seen that hard look on the girl’s 
face. Marca remained a long time standing by 
the window, half unconsciously looking at the 
workmen, who filled the court with their noise. 
They were working at the tiny house whose gar- 
den she could see from the window; the many 
children of the court seemed greatly to enjoy 
the bustle, and added to the noise. 

At last Marca turned around, and saw her 
adopted mother’s pained look; she threw herself 
down by the good lady’s side, and sobbed away 
all her bitter and rebellious thoughts. 


222 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


“You must love me a little more still, dear 
mamma, for I have but you in this world. He 
has forgotten me. I would not believe it at first; 
each day I expected to see him. But 1 shall 
never see him more. Ah ! he never could have 
loved me Î ” 

Time went on, heavily and sadly; but yet the 
days wore away into long, monotonous weeks. 
Winter cold had come, though it was yet but 
November. Every morning Marca went to give 
her lesson. She did her very best, but it was 
hard work; the children were terribly spoiled, 
and treated the governess with haughty conde- 
scension; little Zeé alone still adored her. 

Marca rarely saw Madame de Vignon, as that 
lady was not an early riser. So this life, which 
had seemed monstrous and impossible, turned 
out to be quite simple. She was the governess; 
no one seemed to remember that she had ever 
been anything else. Madame de Vignon made 
her understand that she could not keep a name 
to which she had no right whatever. So she 
was called Marie Marca; it was rather an odd 
name, said the lady, but it would do; she had 
been christened Marie — and after all, there are 
so many queer names in the world Î She was 
paid every week, and though the sum was ridic- 
ulously small, it helped the two women to live. 
Every afternoon Marca worked with her teacher, 
and hoped to present herself at the next public 
examination. With a regular diploma she 
would be able to obtain a little remunerative 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


223 


work. But she was growing pale, and she had 
lost all her vivacity. She now suffered more 
from the change in her destiny than she had 
done at first. She lived in her past — so much 
so that she did not notice how, each day, her 
kind protector lost her strength. 

One morning Marca did not find her pupils in 
the school-room. Madame de Vignon had taken 
them to a grand marriage at the other end of 
Paris. Marca, not knowing whether she ought 
to remain or not, was questioning a servant, 
when M. de Vignon passed by. This was the 
first time she had seen the master of the house 
since she had become his children’s teacher. 

“How? — my wife did not let you know? — 
She let you come for nothing ! ” 

Marca was shivering under her thin cloak; 
the weather was dreadful, and there was no fire 
in the school-room.* The count forced her to 
warm herself at the drawing-room fire. 

“ Heartless ! — quite heartless ! ” he muttered, 
as he brought a cushion for her feet and stirred 
the fire. “ To make you walk through the sleet 
and dirt ! Ah, if I could do something for you ! 
But I can’t, I can’t ! ” 

He was examining the girl through his eye- 
glass, as she sat motionless and silent. She 
glanced about her, taking in the luxury of the 
place, thinking of the far greater luxury which 
had been hers, remembering her passion for 
beautiful objects. The faithlessness of her 


224 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


lover had been her great sorrow; but small sor- 
rows of another kind now gathered about it. 

M. de Vignon, silent also, followed these 
thoughts on the girl’s tell-tale face, and longed 
greatly to console her; but he did not know how 
to begin. At last he said: 

“A terrible change, poor child; — a terrible 
change.” 

“ Why did they not let me die with my poor 
little mother?” muttered the unhappy girl. 

“ Who was she — your little mother?” 

“ I do not know. When Madame de Schnee- 
feld taunted me with my birth, she was in no 
humor to go into details, nor I to ask for any. 
My mother belonged to the lower classes, and 
was only sixteen years of age; — I know no 
more.” 

“ And your father ?” 

Marca glanced at him, then flushed. 

“ Foundlings have no father, have they? Mis- 
fortune teaches one many things; — the poor 
little workwoman did not know, very likely, the 
real name of the man who made her love him.” 

M. de Vignon seemed ill at ease. He walked 
up and down, and finally left the drawing-room, 
to return immediately. 

“Will you let me be — what I once asked 
you to consider me — your friend? Let me try 
and discover your origin; give me all possible 
clues.” 

“It would be of no use; 1 can give you no 
further details.” 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


225 


She was nervously playing with the gold cir- 
clet on her wrist — a trick of hers — and he was 
watching her intently. 

“ I understood — Maxime told me — that you 
threw all your trinkets at Olga’s feet. Very 
plucky of you — but that bracelet there ? ” 

Marca did not want to hear anything more 
about Maxime, so she said hastily: 

“ It was my mother’s; it was all she had. . . . 
But I must go; Madame de Vignon would never 
forgive a tête-à-tête with you. Farewell.” 

“ That bracelet might be some proof ; there 
may be something written inside; let me have 
it ! ” and he tried to unfasten the bracelet. 

Marca was a little impatient, and quickly 
snatched away her hand. 

“ Why, there are millions of such bracelets; 
they even have a name, now-a-days — porte-bon- 
heur — what an irony, is it not? Take my ad- 
vice, Count, and do not say that I warmed my 
feet at your fireside. I thank you all the same ! ” 
And without listening to further supplications 
she ran away. 

As she took off her cloak she saw that there 
was something white in the outside pocket. It 
was a letter, bearing her name hastily written; 
the envelope contained a five hundred franc bill, 
and these words scribbled on a scrap of paper : 

“ Let me care for you, let me persuade you 
that my sincere affection for you gives me some 
right to protect and aid you. Unfortunately 
I can do but little; but I shall perhaps be able 
15 


226 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


to secure some work less meanly compensated 
than your teaching here — my wife is so very 
economical. For Heaven’s sake, Marca, do not 
mistake my intentions. I have done but little 
good in this world, and some harm; let me at 
least atone for the past in being of some little 
use to you. Remember the day when I spoke 
to you of my dead child.” 

“You must send that back at once, dear,” 
said Madame Langlois, when she had heard the 
whole story. “ Did you not tell me that 
Madame de Vignon had more than once shown 
some jealousy at her husband’s evident liking 
for you ? I sincerely believe that Monsieur de 
Vignon is this time perfectly sincere and honest; 
but his reputation is not a good one — and you 
know, my child, that in our position pride must 
become a virtue as it is a necessity.” 

Marca folded up the bill, with a note of polite 
but rather cold refusal; she determined to carry 
it herself before evening. 

It was the countess’s day. Marca did not 
know this, or she would not have waited till the 
afternoon to do her errand. She pulled her 
thick veil well over her face, and her heart beat 
violently: what if she were to meet some old 
acquaintances ! Two or three carriages waited 
before the door, but she saw no familiar faces. 
She was grateful that Madame de Vignon had 
thought fit to condemn her always to take the 
back staircase. 

She thought the servant to whom she handed 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


227 


the letter, with the recommendation to give it 
into the count’s own hands, smiled somewhat 
scornfully; but she hurried away, and thought 
Tio more of the matter. 

« Marca ! ” 

The young girl, who was hastening away, 
stopped, and was forced to lean against the wall 
to keep from falling. Maxime was by her side. 

“ What do you wish ? Let me pass. I have 
forgotten you, as you have forgotten me. I am 
no longer of your world.” 

“ I have not forgotten you ! I love you, my 
darling; 1 have been looking for you all over 
Paris. Where do you live ? — how do you 
live?” 

“ I live with some one who is a mother to me, 
and who will not abandon me as others have 
done. I earn my daily bread. I need no one. 
You looked for me ? I do not believe it. You 
love me still? I do not believe it. I am told 
that you are not inconsolable — that your life is 
a life of dissipation.” 

Calumnies — mere calumnies. Let me walk 
with you; we shall be able to talk more freely 
than here.” 

Marca saw, as she lifted her head, that several 
persons were coming down the grand staircase, 
talking with animation, and stopping almost at 
every step; she saw also that Maxime was ill at 
ease. 

“ You do not wish to be seen with the chil- 
dren’s governess ! ” She said this with bitter 


228 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


violence; and before he could detain her she had 
rushed away. 

Maxime thought he had never seen her look 
so pretty; her indignation was becoming. He 
now would be sure to find her out. Madame 
de Vignon, who had never told him that Marca 
came each day to her house, could not now re- 
fuse to tell him where she lived. It was a great 
relief to know that she was in good hands, and 
that she bravely accepted her new position. He 
would find means of sending her money from 
time to time in such a way that she should never 
guess where it came from. After all, it was not 
his fault if Olga had sent her away ! 

Marca told her adventure to Madame Lang- 
lois. Then, after a long silence, she suddenly 
exclaimed: 

“ Do you know, dear mamma, that I am eight- 
een to-day? What a birthday ! ” 

The tears fell thick and fast. Her eighteenth 
birthday, that was to have been so gay, and was 
so very, very sad ! 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


N the morning, Marca received a letter from 



JL Madame de Vignon, informing her that her 
services were no longer required, and enclosing 
the small sum due to her. “ You are really very 
unsophisticated, my dear,” she wrote, “ if you 
fancy that the count receives his letters without 
control. If ever you have a gay Lothario as 
husband, you will do as I do: watch and detect. 
I am not angry with you — though certainly 
your past conduct alone is accountable for what 
has happened; you are by instinct a flirt. But 
though I forgive you, you must understand that 
I cannot receive under my roof a person so dan- 
gerous to my domestic happiness.” 

“ Her domestic happiness ! ” Marca almost 
laughed; but she did not even finish reading the 
letter, which was a long one; she tossed it into 
a drawer. 

This peremptory dismissal did not affect her; 
she had other cares, and a sorrow so great that 
petty annoyances could not touch her. During 
the night Madame Langlois had been taken so 
ill that Marca, frightened at the violence of the 
attack, had called to Pierre for help. 

Then, as she watched this poor face, drawn 
with pain, Marca forgot all else. She bitterly 
reproached herself for the selfishness of her 


230 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


past sorrow. She soothed and petted her adopt- 
ed mother with as much tenderness as though 
indeed she had been her daughter. She had to 
make up for many hours of silent brooding and 
cold undemonstrativeness. 

“ My God ! ” the poor woman would murmur, 
as she watched Marca; “I cannot leave her! 
God have mercy on us both ! What will become 
of her, alone in this cruel world ? ” Then Pierre, 
who watched by the bed-side, would press her 
hand, and in his honest eyes she read that the 
young girl should never be unprotected or un- 
cared for. But the dying woman did not dare 
take comfort in this; for she knew that Pierre 
loved Marca — and that Marca could never re- 
turn that love. 

Death came to her suddenly, after all. She 
seemed much easier one evening; and Pierre, as 
he left the room, begged Marca to take some 
rest. Madame Langlois, half dozing, added her 
entreaties; she needed nothing; the suffering 
had left her. 

The next morning when Marca woke she saw 
that Madame Langlois was quite rigid and cold. 
Death had come to her gently during her sleep. 

Pierre took all the painful details of the 
funeral upon himself, and let Marca sob away 
her grief. She wept over her loss, she wept 
also over her utter desolateness. She was alone 
in the world — really alone now, penniless and 
homeless; and the question of her daily bread 
became a question of terrible import. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


231 


Pierre was the only other mourner at the 
poor funeral. The two young people followed 
the hearse, while a cold winter rain fell silently, 
adding its chill to their misery. Marca noticed 
that the tomb was a very decent one, and that 
a marble-cutter came for some instructions about 
the cross he was to make. 

“ But all that must cost dreadfully — and there 
is so little money left ! ” whispered Marca. 

“It is all settled; I have done for her what I 
should have done for my own mother.” He did 
not add that his last penny had been spent in 
thus honoring the dear woman’s memory. 

Marca spent a horrible night in the small 
apartment, now empty and forlorn, with the in- 
fluence of death hovering about it. She tried 
to reason herself into something like composure; 
but her nerves were so irritated and quivering 
that more than once during the sleepless hours 
she came near calling out. 

When Pierre knocked at her door in the 
morning, she rushed toward him and said fever- 
ishly: 

“I cannot stay here — indeed I cannot; I shall 
die of fright. Take me away, Pierre, — take 
me away ! ” 

He tried to soothe her, speaking as he might 
have done to a frightened child, trying to seem 
very old and dignified. He gave her to under- 
stand that she ought to leave — not because of 
vague terrors, but because so large an apartment 
(Marca could not help smiling) was far too ex- 


232 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


pensive and fine for a single person. He had 
thought of everything — that good Pierre; he 
had already spoken to the portress — a just- 
minded woman, and kind, too, when she had to 
do with people who paid their rent on the very 
day when it came due — and this worthy person 
knew of some one who was willing to take the 
apartment off Marca’s hands, and even to buy 
what furniture she did not need. As to the 
girl, she might have, just above, a pretty room, 
quite clean and fresh, and very cheap. 

“ How good you are ! ” said Marca, as she 
listened to all this, which Pierre told in many 
words, and with plenty of details, so as to give 
her time to recover herself. “ You take care of 
me as though I were your sister — but we are 
somewhat brother and sister, are we not, since 
our dear Madame Langlois was a mother to us 
both ? I am very fond of you, my dear brother 
Pierre,” and smiling, she put her hand in his. 
She noticed that he turned pale, and that there 
was a nervous twitch about the corners of his 
mouth. But he was quickly master of himself 
again, and answered: 

“Your brother would give his life for you, 
dear Marca. But unfortunately a man’s life 
could not be of much use to you now; a few 
bank notes would be much more to the purpose 
— and those I do not possess.” 

Pierre needed hard work, and immediately 
began to carry what furniture Marca deemed 
indispensable to the floor above. It was he who 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


233 


arranged the whole affair with the concierge; 
and soon the young girl found herself in the 
“ pretty room,” which was now her only home. 
It was but an attic, and very small. Pierre 
watched the expression of the pale young face, 
and in the midst of the animated talk he thought 
fit to keep up he guessed her instinctive shrink- 
ing from this poor, mean refuge, this apparent 
poverty; he remembered that her room in 
Madame de Schneefeld’s princely house must 
have been a marvel of dainty and fresh beauty, 
all pink silk and white lace — he thought it 
must have been something of the sort, — and 
his rapid and incoherent talk came to an un- 
timely end. He saw that she was not listening, 
that she had even forgotten his presence. 
When he had finished his work, he quietly re- 
tired, making no sign. If she suffered, he also 
suffered, and very cruelly. 

Marca remained standing by the window, try- 
ing hard, in the midst of her misery, to think 
seriously. Now that she was alone, she con- 
fessed to herself that the future stretched before 
her in darkness, without one gleam of hope. 
She knew that it is often difficult for women, 
for young girls, even when they are highly rec- 
ommended and in every way prepared for the 
struggle, to make a place for themselves among 
the workers; and she, whose past life had been 
one of luxury, who had asked of the future only 
happiness and joy, — what could she do, now 
that her only friend and protector was a work- 


234 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


man ? Poor Pierre ! she must keep a brave 
face before him, and seem hopeful, for she could 
accept nothing further from him; she guessed 
too well that his purse was now quite empty. 

While doing her best to put some order in 
her thoughts, she had been mechanically follow- 
ing the stir and bustle in the court below. The 
tiny house, which was bright and clean, had 
been all day filled with workmen. Furniture 
had been brought by the wagon-load. Now 
everything seemed to be about finished. She 
had not been the only one to move that day; 
but taking possession of her attic had scarcely 
required an hour’s work, and Pierre’s good-will 
— whereas the moving-in down-stairs had lasted 
all day long. 

Just then, as the last upholsterer was leaving 
the place, a gentleman — the happy possessor of 
this pretty place, no doubt — entered the court, 
and looked about him. As he carelessly lifted 
his eyes, she uttered a faint cry and started back. 
She had recognized Maxime. 

That was the greatest blow of all. What 
could she do now ?• Seek a new refuge ? That 
would be impossible — her absolute poverty for- 
bade anything of the sort. Live thus close to 
him — run the risk of meeting him ? — that 
would be dreadful ; and even as she said that it 
would be dreadful, a wild thrill of joy shook her 
from head to foot. Then she grew afraid. She 
loved him still; she had hoped to forget him, 
but it had been a vain hope. He was to her the 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


235 


incarnation of her past happiness; and all her 
proud resolutions, all her contempt for the man 
who had abandoned her in her distress, all was 
forgotten, save that he had once said “ I love 
you.” The sweetness of these words w r as mak- 
ing her wild. She called out — “Maxime ! Max- 
ime ! ” — as though the faint cry could reach him, 
as though his glance could rest on an attic win- 
dow ! She sobbed bitterly; she wanted to see 
him, to hear him, to call out to him — “I love 
you, Maxime ! I love you still ! ” 

Then came the inevitable reaction, and with 
it a great terror. 

As she had said to M. de Vignon, poverty 
teaches one many things. There could be for 
her no safety save in flight. She must not see 
Maxime; he must not guess her presence. 

Suddenly she remembered her American friend 
— the girl who had left school a year before she 
herself had been called away by Olga. At first 
the two girls had kept up a lively correspondence, 
then gradually the letters had ceased. Marca 
did not remember her friend’s exact address, but 
the father was well-known in the city where he 
lived, and a letter would doubtless reach her. 
Marca spent all that evening writing to her 
school-mate, telling all her pitiful story, and en- 
treating her friend to let her join her in America, 
where she might be able to earn her living — to 
teach ; — they would not require her to produce 
that diploma, which now she had no hope of ob- 
taining. In a new country, far from tormenting 


236 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


memories, she would learn to forget Maxime. 
She had faith in the American girl’s generosity; 
she was rich, she would send her money for the 
journey, and then — all would be over, well over, 
between Maxime and herself. She tried to feel 
glad as she said this ; yet the tears fell once 
more, and the passionate sobs were hushed by 
sleep only as the early dawn peeped in at the 
attic window. 

The following day, when Pierre knocked at 
her door, he seemed very bright and happy. 

“I must tell you of my good luck,” he said; 
“ I am so happy, so proud ! I slipped an article, 
which naturally I signed with a fictitious name, 
into the journal’s letter-box — and this morning 
it appeared in print. I am so pleased ! Soon I 
shall become a real journalist — such things have 
been. I shall owe my good fortune to our dear 
Madame Langlois; and I should be so proud to 
pay my debt of gratitude to her adopted daugh- 
ter ! ” 

“ You are good, Pierre; and I thank you very 
heartily. I am happy at your deserved good 
fortune. But I hope soon to relieve you of your 
burden. I have taken a serious resolution. I 
have written to a friend of mine, an American, 
asking her to find me some work on her side of 
the world; here it is too difficult.” 

Pierre looked at her in dumb amazement and 
incredulity. It was not possible; did she not 
know that it was for her that' he was ambitious, 
for her sake that he hoped to change the work- 
man’s vest for gentlemen’s attire ? 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


237 


“ It cannot be — it is not possible ! ” he said 
at last. 

She signed to him to stand by her at the win- 
dow, and pointed toward the dainty house. 

“It is Maxime who occupies that little place; 
I saw him take possession of it after you left 
me. I understood then that I still loved him — 
more than ever, perhaps; and for that reason I 
must go.” 

Pierre felt a fierce anger arise within him. 
Marca would never see in him more than a mere 
workman. All the hatred of his class against 
the rich boiled within him; he would have liked 
to try his strength against that of this white- 
handed, worthless profligate, whom Marca pre- 
ferred to him; to shake thé beauty out of him; 
to throw him disfigured and helpless at her feet, 
and then cry out: “ Love him now if you will ! ” 
He said nothing, but the young girl half guessed 
his thoughts, and grew troubled. She called 
out: 

“ Do not be angry, Pierre — my brother ! I 
have struggled, and all in vain ! ” 

“ What can there be in him to make you love 
him, after his cowardly desertion ? Shall I tell 
you ? He has a good tailor, and his useless 
hands are white and dainty; that is why you 
love him. I am but a worker — a rough, low 
fellow. Even if I succeed, by dint of* energy 
and talent, in scrambling into a place where you 
might deign to notice me, you will never forget 
that you saw me first in common clothes and 


238 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


with rough hands. And to think that I have 
worked, and hoped, and been ambitious, simply 
for your sake, — so as to be able to say one day, 
4 Be my wife; I love you with all the strength 
of my manhood; I have loved you ever since 
that day when you appeared before me like the 
incarnation of spring, with your hands full of 
flowers.’ But all that is useless; you need not 
tell me so, I know it ! I was mad enough to 
feel some hope, when I learned that you also, by 
your birth, belonged to the people — when the 
rich cast you off — when I, a workman, was able 
to care for you and cherish you ! ” 

She did not answer; she only looked at him 
with sorrowful eyes, in which he thought he saw 
a little fear also. 

That made him gentle and quiet at once; he 
stopped before her very humbly, trying to soften 
his voice so as not to frighten her. 

“ You will never learn to love me ? ” He could 
not quite give up all hope. 

“ One cannot love two men at the same time, 
Pierre. You are my dear, dear brother; but 
you can never be more to me. It is not possi- 
ble.” Then seeing that his passion was again 
growing violent, she added pitifully: “Oh, why 
do you make me lose my last, my only friend ? 
Do you not understand that after what you have 
said, I must no longer see you, speak to you, as 
I have done till now ? Indeed, I did not need to 
have this last cross laid on my shoulders ! ” 
“Yes,” he said slowly, “it is quite true. 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


239 


Through my fault I have deprived you of a 
friend, and taken all happiness out of my own 
life. I am naturally violent; and to be good 
one needs a little hope. There is no hope left 
for me — so 1 must go away from you; I must 
say ‘ Good-bye,’ Marca.” 

“Good-bye, Pierre;” and she remembered 
that once before an honest man had left her say- 
ing, “Good-bye, Marca;” and she had never 
seen him more. Was Maxime worthy that she 
should sacrifice to the mad love he had inspired 
two such men as the painter Nariskine and the 
workman Pierre ? 

“But what will become of you?” 

“I still have a little money left; and surely 
in the large shops I shall be able to find some 
sewing to do — enough to keep me alive until I 
get news from America, 1 have calculated that 
I may have no answer before three or four 
weeks.” 

“ It is quite decided, then ? ” 

“Quite — my poor, dear friend.” 

“And when, by accident, we meet on the 
stairs, I may speak to you — may I not?” 

“Oh, Pierre, Pierre ! why did you let me 
know that you loved me? We were so happy 
as -brother and sister!” She gave him her 
hand, and he kissed it. Then, in silence, he 
left her. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


ND now came the terrible question of her 



XX daily bread. She must manage to earn a 
little money to enable her to live until the letter 
from America should relieve her of further care. 
She could not hope to earn that money as teach- 
er; she had nô recommendations now which 
might m^ke up for the want of regular certifi- 
cates. But she sjooke several languages — Eng- 
lish as easily almost as French; she could also 
make herself understood in German and Italian. 

One morning, trying to feel very brave, she 
started for the Magasin chi Louvre , meaning to 
offer her services; she could surely learn quickly 
to be a passable shop-girl, and there were always 
so many strangers in Paris that her talent as 
linguist might not be despised. 

What if she should meet Laure, making her 
last purchases before the marriage ?... 
But it was early, and she saw no familiar faces 
at all. She was terribly frightened; she blun- 
dered through the little speech, learned be- 
forehand, and this did not favorably prepossess 
the solemn, white-cravatted surveillant, who lis- 
tened to her. He made out, however, that she 
had not the slightest experience, and that she 
had no recommendations. 

“If you knew, Mademoiselle, how many ap- 


240 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


241 


plications of this kind we receive daily, you 
would understand that in the number we choose 
rather experienced persons than novices; and 
persons with good references rather than those 
who come to us without.” 

“ Ah,” said the poor child, lifting her tear- 
filled eyes toward the speaker, “ no one would 
show gi eater zeal than I ! I so long to earn my 
livelihood — • and so need to do so ! I bring no 
references, because I was a great lady’s adopted 
daughter, and one day, in a fit of anger, she 
threw me into the street. You do not believe 
my story — I see that in your eyes; and I do not 
wonder, for it does not sound real; — and yet I 
assure you it is true, terribly true ! ” 

She was listened to very politely, but very 
coldly. It was possible that, as the city was full of 
strangers just then, she might be engaged as sup- 
plementary interpreter; — an English clerk was 
even summoned, who deigned to approve of her 
accent, and her address was written down in a 
large book. But she left the immense shop 
with a sinking of the heart; she guessed that 
she should hear no more of the possible place, — 
in which she was not mistaken. 

She was bitterly sad and absolutely discour- 
aged. The weather was cold; half-melted snow 
rendered the streets hideously dirty; Marca 
shivered under her thin cloak, and the worn 
boots scarcely protected her feet from the slush. 
The sky was low and grey, and blackish clouds 
were chased wildly here and there by an icy 
16 


242 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


wind. When she was little, she fancied that 
God could only see the earth through a clear 
blue sky, and that clouds formed an impenetra- 
ble veil; she remembered her childish fancy as 
she walked. Perhaps if she prayed very hard 
the prayer might pierce the clouds; and so, 
jostled by the hurrying crowd, she prayed as she 
had not done for many a day. Yet, even as the 
words gushed from her heart, she knew that 
this was not a real prayer — that it was a cry of 
passion, a great longing for happiness, a mad 
calling to Maxime; there was no resignation in 
her prayer: she was so young — she so needed a 
little sunshine ! 

As she passed the Madeleine she went into 
the big church; it was almost empty just then, 
and she shrank into the corner of a side chapel. 

She remained there a long time, quite motion- 
less. A priest, not far off, was saying mass, and 
the tinkling of the silver bell reached her softly. 
She did not think, however, of approaching and 
following the service; she did not wish to stir. 
She was no longer cold; a sort of numbness had 
come over her. Yet she noticed, in a dreamy 
way, that there was a subdued bustle in the 
church. There was doubtless going to be some 
fine marriage, for the suisses wore their grandest 
accoutrements, gold-laced hats, scarlet and gold 
uniform, white silk stockings. The big arm- 
chairs were placed in front of the great altar, 
where the white marble angels would look down 
on the happy bride. Still Marca remained motion- 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


243 


less, trying to pray. She did not look up when 
the rustle of silk told her that the body of the 
church was gradually filling with a finely-clad 
crowd. She remembered that the end of the 
year was close at hand, and that she herself was 
to have been married in December. This caused 
her to cry a little, but very quietly, very dis- 
creetly, lest she should be noticed. 

Suddenly the organist struck up a triumphant 
march; the church vibrated with the magnificent 
rolling sounds. Marca had always loved music, 
especially music in a large church, with its grand 
vibrations. She lifted her head, half consoled 
by the pleasure she felt. The march was the 
signal of the bridal party’s entrance. The church 
was nearly full of well-dressed people; it was a 
harmonious mixture of rich winter colors and 
stuffs — velvet, plush, furs, with a preponder- 
ance of deep reds and blue-blacks ; it gave 
one a soothing impression of warmth and wealth. 
There was the rustling sound of a rising crowd; 
then a silence, full of curious expectation. The 
two suisses, staff in hand, walked in front; then 
came the bride, seeming very tall under her veil, 
with the long satin train, covered with lace and 
orange blossoms. She leaned on her father’s arm, 
and her father was — Baron Jean de Schneefeld ! 
Marca rose, much frightened, and cast a glance 
on the crowd which hemmed her in. She wanted 
to flv; but she could not. Close to the chapel 
where she was half hidden she saw Madame de 
Vignon and her little girls. If she made the 


244 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


slightest stir she would be recognized. She once 
more hid her face, trembling from head to foot. 

And thus it was that she assisted, uninvited, 
at her cousin’s wedding. She was indeed to 
have taken part in this ceremony; but instead 
of being, as she ought to have been, dressed like 
Laure in creamy satin, with lace and white 
flowers, she shivered under a skimp black dress ; 
instead of kneeling proudly by the side of her 
chosen husband, in the sight of all these people, 
she shrank in an obscure corner, scarcely daring 
to mourn her lost happiness, lest she should be 
noticed, and her shame become known. 

And yet she wanted to see Maxime: was he 
thinking also that this should have been his 
wedding-day? — would he not, before this crowd, 
guessing her presence, come toward her with 
open arms, and call out, as he had once done — 
“She was given to me as my wife; as such I 
claim her ! ” Alas ! even as she dreamed this 
dream, she knew full well that if by some 
chance he were to see her in her beggar garb, 
he would turn from her, ashamed, and pretend 
that he knew her not. 

The ceremony had begun. All eyes were 
fixed on the wedding party, where each one had 
found an assigned place. Then Marca also ven- 
tured to look. The chapel was raised a little 
above the body of the church, so that she saw 
quite well. She scarcely glanced at the princi- 
pal actors of the scene; she immediately singled 
out Maxime in the family group. She thought 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


245 


he looked a little pale; and immediately her 
heart melted. Surely he too remembered. 

The stout Baronne Amélie seemed stouter 
than ever, in violet silk. Marca sought eagerly 
among the other fine ladies, but Olga was not 
there. Then she noticed her little friend Claire, 
who seemed more moved than her sister; she 
was bridesmaid, and she wore a pretty light- 
blue dress, like the other bridesmaid, whom 
Marca did not know; a relative of the happy 
husband, doubtless. She noticed all these things; 
then quickly her wandering eyes were once more 
fixed on Maxime’s face. 

The customary sermon seemed terribly long 
to Marca; then, after, came the inevitable quête , 
— for the principal use of bridesmaids in French 
marriages is to carry the collection-bag from 
row to row, escorted by the groomsmen and 
preceded by the beadle. Marca had not thought 
of this ceremony. She waited, trembling, to 
find out which of the two bridesmaids was to 
come on her side. Should it be the unknown 
girl, she was safe; but what if it were Claire, 
and she should recognize her? She determined 
to hide her face, and make no sign; Claire 
would pass by, never guessing her presence. 

And it was her friend who directed her steps 
on the side of the church where she found her- 
self. When the young girl, whose fingers were 
held by a white-gloved youth, came close to her, 
Marca was seized with such a hungry longing 
for a look, a word of pity, that she forgot all 


246 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


prudence. The beadle, striking the marble pave- 
ment with his big stick, made way for the quê- 
teuse, repeating his monotonous “ Pour Véglise , 
sHl vous plaît!” and Claire, blushing and sweet- 
looking, at every offering which fell in her red 
velvet bag said a low “ merci” Then at last 
she reached the side chapel where Marca knelt 
alone, and the poor girl lifted her head and 
fixed her sad eyes on her friend’s. 

“Marca!” The cry was a smothered one; 
but there was a moment’s delay, which astonished 
the white-gloved youth, and caused the beadle 
to look around. 

“ Let your bag fall,” whispered Marca. Claire 
understood, and, pretending to stumble, sent 
the bag and its contents rolling on the ground. 
This caused quite a little hub-bub. The grave 
beadle knelt to pick up the rolling coppers and 
silver pieces. In the midst of this confusion no 
one noticed that a shabby young person in black 
helped to pick up the money, and spoke low and 
fast to Claire. 

“ Marca, for God’s sake tell me where I may 
find you — what I may do for you ! ” 

“ What can you do, my poor Claire ? Do you 
think your mother would allow you to approach 
me? I ought to have let you pass; but 1 so 
wanted to say to you, dear, that I love you still. 
Ah ! it is sad to be all alone in the world when 
one is eighteen years of age.” 

“Marca — my darling — I love you; I have 
so often cried over your misfortunes. But Max- 


4 MERE CAPRICE. 


247 


ime told me that you were cared for — that you 
were not unhappy. I do not believe it now.” 

“Maxime was right; 1 am not in want — I 
work for my living; soon I shall leave France 
forever. Kiss me, dear — no one will see you ; — 
now go, they are waiting for you ! ” 

“ Maxime will take me to see you; I mean to 
beg so hard ! ” 

She was forced to go. The majestic beadle 
was handing her the velvet bag, with its re- 
covered contents; many curious looks were 
directed toward the young girl, whose mother 
from her place half dislocated her neck to 
discover the cause of this unusual bustle; and 
so, with a last look of pitying affection, the good 
little girl went her way, forgetting to say her 
“merci” to the alms-givers. 

It was not till some time later that Claire 
managed to attract Maxime’s attention, without 
exciting her watchful mother’s suspicion. The 
wedding party stood in a formal row T against the 
sacristy’s wall, receiving the congratulations of 
the crowd which passed out of the church that 
way. Claire stood at a little distance from the 
calm bride; she at last was able to whisper in 
Maxime’s ear : 

“Quick! — do not lose a moment! — in the 
second chapel to the right you will find Marca; 
she is heart-broken, and very poor. You cannot 
let the girl who was to-day to have been your 
wife die of starvation ! Go ! ” 

Maxime grew very pale. There were moments 


248 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


when he still loved Marca ; but he was terribly 
afraid of some sort of “scene” in a crowd. 
However he slipped away, and hurried to the 
chapel. Marca had disappeared. He scarcely 
knew whether he was relieved or disappointed. 

Still he so tormented Madame de Yignon with 
his questions that at last she told him she had 
'been forced to dismiss the governess because 
the count was madly in love with her; and that 
she had no idea what had become of the girl. 

Maxime was decidedly cross during the wed- 
ding reception; and this was much commented 
upon. All these people knew that it was to 
have been his wedding-day, as well as his sister’s; 
and Marca was more alluded to than she had 
been for a long time past. Public opinion was 
fast changing, and the Schneefeld family were 
greatly blamed. It is possible that the girl had 
been in the wrong; but a greater wrong was to 
abandon a child of eighteen in the midst of a 
great city like Paris. 


CHAPTER XX. 


WHOLE weary month passed, and no let- 



ter from America came to cheer Marca. 


Then she persuaded herself that her friend’s fam- 
ily had doubtless changed their residence, and 
that her letter was following them. The name 
was so well known that it was impossible the 
letter should not finally reach its destination. 
She would not — she could not — think other- 
wise; it would be madness, death, to her. 
School friendships are often forgotten, but she 
felt sure of her old schoolmate’s heart; she never 
doubted the ultimate result of her appeal. Only, 
waiting from day to day was very hard. Each 
morning she ventured a timid “ Is there nothing 
forme? — no letter from America?” until the 
portress impatiently told her that she was in the 
habit of delivering the lodgers’ letters, even to 
those who did not pay their rent. Poor Marca 
dared say no more; she owed her month’s rent 
and could not pay it. 

Sometimes Pierre and she would meet on the 
staircase; but there could be but little inter- 
course now between them. The young man had 
grown very gloomy. Still, his love was not con- 
quered, and if the girl had lifted her tear-filled 
eyes imploringly to his, all his evil thoughts, all 
his hardness, would have disappeared like mist 


249 


250 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


before the sun. Even without this appeal, re- 
membering his unspoken promise to Madame 
Langlois, he did his best to help her; but he 
was awkward in his attempts, and she would ac- 
cept nothing. She assured him that she had 
found work, and showed him some rough linen 
which she was to make up for one of the large 
shops. He saw that she was pale, and that her 
step had lost its springing elasticity; but she 
would smile gently as she answered his questions, 
and he dared not insist. Then, invariably, he 
asked fiercely whether she had received news 
from America; and when she said she had not, 
but doubtless the letter would soon come, his 
heart beat violently with a wild hope: utter 
want might at last throw her into his arms. 
And so he, too, waited. 

The work which Marca had at last found gave 
her just enough to keep her literally from starv- 
ing. She was inexperienced, and wanted to do 
it too well; so that the task seemed never-end- 
ing. And even thus, with twelve hours of work, 
she could not earn enough to pay for more than 
her daily bread. In a few days she would owe 
two months’ rent. How was this all to end ? 
Then she remembered that Mr. Nariskine, even 
before he fell in love with her, had treated her 
with kind consideration. She would go to him; 
he was generous and manly; he would never 
think of taking any advantage of her destitute 
situation. One day she went, hoping to see 
him, but his studio was shut; letters and cards 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


251 


heaped up were waiting for him in the porter’s 
lodge. The last address he had given was Rome; 
but he had sent word that he was on the point 
of leaving that city, and that nothing was to be 
forwarded until he had given a new address. 
Marca wrote a few words, and begged to have 
the note sent to him with the rest, as soon as 
possible. 

Every hope thus crumbled away. She won- 
dered that she should still live on. But each 
day hunger assailed her, and each night she 
slept. Youth is so full of life! — longing foi 
death does not bring it always. Yet she sub 
fered greatly, especially from the cold; her attic 
was terribly exposed, and the water froze more 
than once in her pitcher. Sometimes, from 
sheer cold, she would creep to bed long before 
night came. From her window, as she worked, 
she could see Maxime’s dainty bachelor quarters; 
sometimes in the evening the windows gleamed 
with the light from within, and the sound of 
music came softly to her ears. She thought of 
him continually; it was madness, — but, from 
her many privations, she felt herself grow weak, 
morally as well as physically. She still had suf- 
ficient self-respect to avoid him with such care 
that he had not guessed her presence ; but be- 
yond that, she allowed herself the one luxury 
left her. She was cold and hungry and weary; 
but she could still sometimes catch a glimpse of 
her lover as he crossed the court beneath; — she 
could still think of him by day, dream of him by 


252 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


night. What law could deprive her of that last 
comfort ? 

One day, as she took back a parcel of work, 
she was told that her services were no longer 
required. She stood stunned, half stupid, look- 
ing at the coppers just handed to her. No 
more work ?... Then what was to become 
of her? 

She knew that it was useless to remonstrate, 
and she turned away. As she left the shop she 
met Maxime face to face. 

She had avoided him with such care, only to 
meet him thus stupidly in the midst of a crowd. 
She trembled, and grew very faint. 

“ Marca — my little Marca ! For God’s sake 
look at me ! speak to me ! Am 1 not your 
cousin, almost your brother ? Have I no right 
to help you ? If you knew what remorse I feel 
when I sit down to my dainty meals, to think 
that ‘ you perhaps are in want ! I have never 
ceased to love you, my darling; they want me 
to marry a rich girl — but I refuse, for I love 
but you. Let me take you somewhere, and get 
you some warm clothes. You are cold, I know. 
. . . And the lady who adopted you ? ” 

“ She is dead.” 

“Then how do you live ? ” 

“ I work — see, I have just been paid,” and 
she showed him the handful of coppers. 

“ Where do you live ? ” 

“From my window I see you pass. My attic 
looks down upon your house.” 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


253 


“ Marca !... And I never guessed it ! ” 

“ I watch your departure before venturing 
out.” 

“ You no longer love me, then ! ” 

“You mistake; I love you madly, and that is 
why we must never meet. Some one — a work- 
man — who wishes me to be his wife, knows 
that I love you; were he to see us together my 
reputation would be lost. ... I must go. 
Farewell.” 

“ You shall not go ! ” 

“ Do you wish a street scandal ? What 
would your fine friends say, were they to see 
you in such poor company ? ” 

“ I have the right to save you in spite of 
yourself. I shall go and find you in your 
attic ! ” 

“ My door is always locked. I should scream, 
and Pierre would come to my rescue.” 

“ Who is this Pierre ? ” 

“ A noble fellow. If I had not been mad I 
should have loved him. I belong to his class, 
after all, not to yours. Farewell ! ” 

She had slipped away. But this did not 
trouble him, now that he knew where to find 
her. Laure had returned from her wedding 
trip; she was not bad-hearted, and she was no 
longer under their mother’s control; she should 
go with him to Marca’s attic. Together they 
would save her; she could not refuse a woman’s 
help, when that woman had been almost a 
cousin. 


254 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


He ran to his sister’s house. Laure was out, 
and was not expected home until late. 

“To-morrow will be time enough,” thought 
Maxime. The effort he had made to help Marca 
had quieted his conscience ; and he sauntered 
away well satisfied with himself. 

Marca forgot to buy some bread. Other 
thoughts filled her brain. As she was passing 
in, the portress stopped her. 

“You owe two months’ rent to-day, and if you 
have not paid it before to-morrow morning the 
proprietor requests you to leave ; your furniture 
will barely pay your debt.” 

“ Here ! ” and she put down all the money she 
held in her hand. The woman counted out fif- 
teen sous. 

“ What am I to do with that? You are jok- 
ing !” ^ 

“ It is all I have,” sobbed the poor child. 

“ Well, then, to-morrow your room will be 
let. It is not my fault,” she said, seeing the 
girl’s despair. “ Shall I speak to Pierre about 
it?” 

« No — no !” 

“I saw that you were no longer good friends; 
that is why I have not spoken to him on the 
matter — for, after all, you know he has to work 
hard to keep his own head above water. . . 

And then a pretty girl like you need never want 
long.” 

It was not the first time Marca heard such in- 
sinuations ; they had come to her from the 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


255 


work-rooms, from the streets where she walked 
fast for fear of being stopped. She tottered 
away, saying quickly : 

“ I am going to look for work ! ” 

She felt very weak. Early that morning she 
had eaten a little bread left over from the day 
before ; since then, nothing. She did not feel 
hungry, only she trembled as she walked. 

Night was coming on as she ended her sad 
pilgrimage. Everywhere she received the same 
answer : The season was so far advanced that 
there was no longer an absolute need of help, 
and only well-recommended workwomen were 
employed. She still walked on ; but her thoughts 
were strangely wild. She felt quite ill. At 
last, worn out, she let herself fall on a bench. 
She found herself on the boulevard, just oppo- 
site a famous restaurant. The smell of cooking 
came to her from the kitchen, which was below 
the level of the street. Through the immense 
plate-glass windows she saw the rows of well- 
served little tables, with glistening glass and 
silver, and stiff shiny napkins folded in odd 
shapes, each holding its small loaf ; red shrimps 
and tiny radishes gave a pretty glow of color 
among the white of the linen and china. Waiters 
hurried here and there ; gentlemen came and 
sat down at the tempting tables, carelessly un- 
folding the napkins. And she, who was dying 
of hunger, watched all this with intense interest, 
as though she were seeing some wonderful play. 
She was unable to reason about it all ; her poor 


256 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


head whirled too much for thought, and red 
clouds passed before her eyes. Hunger had be- 
come a veritable torture. For weeks past she 
had not eaten what health required ; for days 
past she had lived on a little bread — nothing 
more. 

And her poor little mother had died almost 
happy, saying, “ At least she will never know 
what real hunger is ! ” 

At last she understood that she could not re- 
main longer on the bench. People stared at 
her, and the evening had closed in upon her. 
Happy couples brushed past her, hurrying to the 
different theatres. The boulevard was brilliant 
with gas-jets, and the magnificent shops threw 
great floods of light out upon the pavement. 
She shrank away; she would have liked to hide 
in some dark corner, where no one should see 
her. Then she remembered her little, cold, 
silent room, and wished herself there; — she was 
not to be sent away until to-morrow; it would 
be good to sleep a few hours . . . ah, if 

she could sleep forever ! She had heard stories 
of people dying of hunger in obscure attics, 
while the noise and bustle of a magnificent city 
went on around. 

She was so weak that it took her a long time 
to reach the tall dismal house. As she dragged 
herself in, she heard the portress scream out in 
her harsh voice: 

“You know, if you have not paid your debt 
to-morrow, you are to be turned out; the pro- 
prietor said so again to-day ! ” 


A MERE. CAPRICE. 


257 


She did not answer, but crawled past, leaning 
against the wall for support. 

Then suddenly she felt herself lifted up in 
two strong arms, and Maxime’s voice was in her 
ears. She let herself go, never even thinking 
of screaming, of making the slightest resist- 
ance. All her strength, all her pride, had left 
her. 

“ I heard what that woman said; they want 
to send you away — let them. You have done 
your very best, my poor darling; you have 
struggled, but the fight has been too much for 
you. You were so ill-prepared for it ! — you 
who have been living like a princess.” 

<£ I am hungry,” muttered Marca. 

“ Come — you shall eat, you shall warm your- 
self by a blazing fire. Fear nothing; my ser- 
vant has gone; a cold supper is all prepared — I 
was to have brought in some friends after the 
theatre. Come ! ” 

“ But, Maxime, you know that I cannot — that 
I dare not ! ” said the poor girl. “ Do you not 
see that I love you ? — and that is why you must 
let me go.” 

“ Listen to me, my darling; listen; try and 
understand. Do you think me an absolute 
wretch ? Can you imagine that I could take 
advantage of your desolation ? — make a profit 
out of your misery ? You shall leave me when 
you like. I love you dearly — more, far more, 
than I ever guessed; but a girl half dying of 
fatigue and cold and want is sacred in my eyes. 

17 


258 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


Let me be your cousin — your brother — for this 
once; let me care for you — comfort you. You 
shall be as safe by my fireside as in your cold 
attic.” 

“I am so hungry — so very hungry,” she re- 
peated, scarcely knowing what she was saying. 
“You know, Maxime, I showed you some pen- 
nies 1 have earned. I gave them all to the 
portress; not thinking that to live one must eat. 
Since then, I have been wandering in search of 
work, but I found none. I have been walking 
ever since. I am so tired — so very tired.” 

By way of answer he lifted her up and carried 
her like a sick child. Once before he had held 
her thus in his arms, half dead, — and he had 
saved her. He would save her this time also. 


It was very late when Pierre, weary with 
work, came home. The moon, an old, waning 
moon, threw its yellowish rays on the sleeping 
place. There was no light save in the little 
house yonder. He stopped a moment, smiling 
ironically, as he thought that Marca still loved 
a man who so gaily forgot her. As he looked, 
the door opened quietly; he shrank in the shad- 
ow, so as to see who, at such an hour, could thus 
mysteriously slip away. As he expected, the 
figure which quietly glided along was a female 
form. Ah ! if Marca could but see what he 
saw ! 

The woman crossed a space lighted by the 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


259 


moon. Then his heart seemed to stop beating; 
for he had recognized Marca. 

She was quite close to him when he abruptly- 
left his hiding-place and stood before her in the 
lighted space. They looked at each other for a 
few moments in terrible silence; at last Marca 
said: 

“ Pierre ! — Pierre ! — what you think is not 
true: I swear by all that is dear and sacred to 
us both, it is not true ! ” 

But the words died on her lips; she saw that 
he did not believe her. 

“You choose a singular time for a friendly 
visit. It is two o’clock in the morning.” 

“ Listen to me ! ” 

“ Why should I ? You would lie again as you 
have just lied. . . . And to think that I 

worshipped her — that I would have thought it a 
crime to sully her purity with a word — a look ! 
— that I wished her to be my honored wife! 
. . . Go ! — Do you hear ? — Go ! I am but 

a rude workman, and violent.” 

“I was dying of hunger — of cold. He made 
me eat, he warmed me at his fireside. He wept 
to see me so ill and weak; and when I asked to 
go he silently opened the door. To-morrow his 
sister is to come for me; my troubles are at an 
end. If I had done any wrong, would he bring 
his sister to me ? ” 

“You lie ! — you lie ! ” 

She could find nothing further to say, and 
remained silent in the cold moonlight, lifting 


260 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


up her innocent eyes to his. If he would not 
believe her she could not help it. 

“Let me pass, Pierre. You used to be very 
good to me; you will be good now, will you not ? 
The day will come when you will say, ‘ I was 
very hard on her; I would not believe her — yet 
now I think she told the truth.’ ” 

“You were hungry; I was there, — why did 
you not call me? I will tell you; you would 
accept nothing from me, lest some day I should 
say once more, ‘ Be my wife.’ And you prefer 
to be that profligate’s mistress rather than the 
wife of an honest fellow whom you had seen in 
a workman’s dress.” 

She was greatly frightened. She tried to 
scream, but the sound stopped in her throat. 
He saw her terror, and suddenly all his violence 
left him. 

“ Poor child ! ” he muttered, “ poor little 
girl ! I will not hurt you — only I want you to 
understand the truth. You say that you have 
done no harm — it may be true; but to-morrow 
— but later? It is inevitable. You love him, 
and he loves you — after a fashion. You accept 
his protection, his aid; and men of his kind give 
nothing without return. He will not marry 
you — you know that as well as I; well, then, — 
you see that your fall is certain.” 

Then he left her — hurriedly, fearing a return 
of his violence, perhaps. 

Marca did not move. She was horribly pale. 
Pierre’s words echoed in her ears with a formid- 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


261 


able sound. She knew that it was all true. She 
had deceived herself, because she longed to do 
so. Maxime had wept at her feet; he had been 
gentle and respectful; — he could afford to wait. 
Laure would never come to her — she knew that 
it could not be. Then, suddenly, she heard her 
godmother’s last words: “Fool! you care for 
her — keep her. She is of the tribe to whom 
one need never offer a marriage ring ! ” 

And Pierre had said that it was inevitable. 
Her head whirled; she was frightened; fever 
was upon her. She wanted to fly — to go far, 
very far away, where Maxime should never find 
her, where she could die alone. “ My God,” she 
murmured, “My God, I want to do right — you 
know that I only want to do right ! ” 

A belated lodger was ringing violently at the 
bell, when at last the heavy door opened. Marca 
slipped out into the street, scarcely knowing 
what she was doing. 

She sped along very quickly, going — she 
knew not where. Fever raged in her veins; she 
was a little delirious, yet she kept enough pres- 
ence of mind to avoid the few foot-passers. She 
went faster and faster; once, some one tried to 
stop her, but she slipped away, and hurried on. 

It was very dark. The late moon was disap- 
pearing among black clouds; the shiver of early 
morning made itself felt. Still Marca pursued 
her way. She knew that she was leaving the 
great city behind her; there were fewer houses 
and more trees about her. Presently she heard 


262 


A MERE CAPRICE . 


a sound she well knew, for she had heard it dur- 
ing her short summer of happiness — far away 
in the country, where it was warm, and laughing 
groups rested beneath the willow shade: the 
sound of the rushing river. She almost smiled 
with pleasure, as at the meeting of some dear 
friend; with the gurgle, bits of conversation 
came to her as well: 

“ I shall always love the river, which threw 
you into my arms.” 

She remembered that she had been carried 
away by the waters, and that it had not hurt 
her much; Maxime had saved her. 

She drew near to the edge; the river called to 
her; besides, the fever which was now raging 
violently, which blurred all her thoughts, gave 
her also a great thirst; — it would be so pleasant 
to drink, and to bathe her burning head. 

The morning dawned, very cold, very sad. 
She was at quite a distance from Paris; country- 
houses and pretty gardens were vaguely visible 
in the uncertain light. She had found a small 
path which led down to the water’s edge. She 
was very tired — quite worn out. She sat down 
on a stone, saying to herself that she was very 
ill, and wondering what would become of her — 
but without caring much. 

Then once more her thoughts became wildly 
incoherent. She fancied that she was still at 
the Baronne Olga’s country-place; quite dis- 
tinctly she heard the voices of Laure and Claire, 
as they swam in the river; then Maxime’s gay 


A MERE CAPRICE. 


263 


call came to her ear. . . . She must go to 

him. The fever heat was intolerable; she must 
have a little water. She bent down — lower — 
lower; the coolness of the water fascinated her; 
a little lower still . . » and then she let her- 

self go — fainting away into death. 


THE END. 

































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